


A Fish Out of Water

by MalMuses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A Dark Premise But A Fluffy Fic, Alternate Universe - Hunters, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Captivity, Castiel Has PTSD, Communication, Creature Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Goes to Therapy, Dean Winchester Saves Castiel, Discussed Forced Prostitution - None Shown, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fire, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hunter Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Mer Castiel, Monster Brothel, Ocean themes, Protective Dean Winchester, Reversed Hell Rescue Tropes, Romance, Skippable Smut - Can Be Read as Teen, Slow Burn, The Very Happiest of Endings, Trust Issues, and yet more fluff, overcoming differences, sam winchester is a good brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 64,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses
Summary: To tie up the loose ends of a hunt, Dean is forced to go undercover and visit Brock Pleasure Ranch, a horrifying establishment that markets its inhabitants to people with ‘monstrous’ tastes.It should have been a simple thing, to persuade a mer to give him a few scales for a spell. All part of the usual Winchester byline: saving people, hunting things.But Castiel is far less of a ‘thing’ than Dean expected. He might not be human, but he’s definitely a person.And that means he needs saving, too.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2669
Kudos: 2665
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers! 
> 
> How are you all? I've missed posting! I've been prepping several fics for big bangs and while that is its own kind of fun, I miss sharing with you. 
> 
> A couple of things about this fic before we begin!
> 
> One... lizleeships over on [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/lizleeships), and [Tumblr](https://lizleeships.tumblr.com/) has been busy again! I hope you enjoy her gorgeous art in this fic. I've been drooling over it for weeks, and its only fair to share!
> 
> Two...this first chapter is a little sad! There's a dark theme here in the background to set up our fic, but I'm hoping that y'all will trust me when I say...this is a fluff fest. Do not worry yourselves. I'm always here for comfort and a very happy ending!
> 
> Three... skippable smut! This is something I've been trying to do with my fics of late. I know plenty of you love the smut, in all kinds of wonderfully freaky varieties. But not everyone does, or some days you just don't feel like it. So, this fic is designed so that the smut will be skippable, without missing any plot points or such. 
> 
> Finally, this fic contains a unicorn: hunter Dean Winchester going to therapy. It takes something substantial to make that happen, I'm tellin' you. You will see that I have only included brief glimpses of his actual therapy sessions in this fic, though. The reason for this is simply that I am not qualified to write such a thing. Therapy is so intensely personal, and really requires an admirable level of training and knowledge. So, I will leave that to those who are qualified, and only show you the relevant parts to the story.
> 
> I think that's all of my public service announcements...so on we go!
> 
> Endless thanks to Liz, [jscribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jscribbles/works), [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz), and captainhaterade.
> 
> \- Mal

Hunting, as a profession—though it was more of a calling, really, Dean thought—certainly helped to promote a strong stomach and a very dulled sense of smell. There was nothing wrong with Dean’s nose, he’d just learned to breathe through scents much worse than most folk could probably imagine, from blood to bile to bodies.

But this place…this place smelled _wrong._

The makeshift waiting room was damp and drippy, a whiff of mold and mildew marinating with something purely rotten hung low in the dark space. It was a good thing that Dean had come here and not Sam. Sam was back at the motel, preparing the rest of the spell that would break the curse on the kid they’d found while hunting a rogue shaman. A good thing, in Dean’s opinion—he was pretty sure the smell would have clung to all that hair. 

Even the air in the tiny waiting area made Dean feel like he was going to catch something from it, hanging thick and soupy in the weak, yellowish light. Never mind catching something from the _people_ here.

“If you don’t wanna wait, I can fix you up with another—”

“No,” Dean said. No qualifier, no polite manners. Just ‘no’. The spell needed one specific ingredient. If these were the depths to which Dean had to sink in order to get it…well, here he was.

“Suit yourself, _Sir_.” 

The _“sir”_ was as sarcastic as could be, likely in reference to the faux FBI suit that Dean was still wearing from his and Sam’s house calls earlier. He hadn’t really thought to change—he wasn’t here to charm anyone or pick up the locals. He was here to do whatever it took, but certainly not here for what the guy behind the counter assumed he was here for.

His name was Earl, and he had a wispy comb-over and one unpleasantly dirty-looking fake eye that had peered fractionally to the left the whole time “Robert Plant” had checked in at the desk. Earl had shown no surprise at the name. Dean was certain he was used to fake names.

Dean leaned back into his stained plastic chair, crossing his ankles out in front of himself, putting out an air of relaxation _._

He was far from relaxed. When Sam had found this place, they’d talked (Winchester for ‘argued’) for thirty minutes over whether they should just burn it to the ground.

Sam said that it wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t the workers’ fault that they were here. Most of them were no better than slaves. They didn’t make a choice to be here—either they were brought here against their will, or life somehow made the choice for them.

Dean had to admit Sam was right. No one would ever choose this place.

From the outside, Brock Pleasure Ranch looked like just another Nevada brothel. Legal, certified, full of bouncing curls and fake smiles and a stereotypical amount of daddy issues. That part of the business was none of Dean’s—he had no problem with that. But this, this was the back entrance. Dean had yet to see a single smile or curl here.

Just dirt, heaviness, and air that somehow smelled of sorrow.

It was making Dean itch to burn it down, still.

“Come with me,” Earl called.

Dean stood and followed the short, limping man through a filthy beaded curtain into the back. Dean wondered where the guy had got the limp—wondered if it was one of the workers. Hoped that it was.

They passed into a narrow corridor that had been painted a bright pink—once upon a time, a lifetime of grime ago. Now it was faded and peeling. The bottom of the wall was half a dozen shades darker than the top and splattered with black grime. Overhead, the lights blinked. The smell was stronger.

“You’ve signed the waiver,” Earl was saying. “We don’t take any responsibility for anything, y’hear me—bites, scrapes, disease. Anything they do to you, you’re on your own.”

“And what about anything I do to them?” Dean asked. Usually, when he was on a case like this, he’d have been peppering someone like Earl with questions. But he didn’t care for this place and he didn’t care for Earl. He knew what he was here for, and it was waiting in lucky room number thirteen.

Something howled as they passed closed door number two.

Earl shrugged. “Don’t care what you do to them, either. Just don’t kill ‘em. They heal fast, for the most part.”

Dean tried to suppress a shudder.

This might be an underground creature brothel, but Dean was already certain there was only one monster here.

Door number nine _rattled_ as they passed. Despite his big, bad hunter status, Dean jumped to the side instinctively, recoiling from the noise and unexpected motion.

Earl just kept walking as if it was totally normal. “Werewolf,” he said casually. “Very frisky, that one, despite the sedation.”

Dean felt sick.

Finally, outside door number thirteen, Earl stopped. The corridor was especially damp here, a puddle beneath the door frame splashing gently against the bare concrete as Earl stepped through it. He slipped a heavy, old-fashioned key into the door. The key was engraved with a symbol that Dean had thought was just a fancier, tilted number thirteen—but the more he looked at it, the more he realized it wasn’t. It was a letter in some unknown language, Dean was sure.

The door clicked as it was unlocked but didn’t budge; it was heavy, even if rotting and covered in a sheen of mossy damp.

“You get thirty minutes,” Earl said. “Have fun.”

Eyes ahead, Dean pushed the door open.

  
  


Could anyone actually “have fun” in this room? Dean’s nose was adjusting, but this room smelled damper than the rest of the building put together…and _salty._

It wasn’t dark inside, it was oppressively pitch. Dean could immediately sense that it wasn’t the darkness of covered windows—there simply weren’t any widows, not even a crack. It was a cold, concrete square.

Dean froze as the door slammed behind him. He heard dripping sounds, but that was it.

Then there was a splash—a _whoosh_ like someone raising themselves up out of a bubble bath after relaxing and reading in the warmth.

Dean had a feeling the true picture was much less clean and sweet than that.

“There’s a light switch to your left,” a deep voice rumbled. It sounded…sleepy. Drugged. “Sorry. I try to rest between visits.”

Reaching out, Dean ran his hand along the slimy wall. Just the touch of it against his palm made him desperately want a shower. Or one of those bubble baths, where he could scrub. His fingers found the plastic plate on the wall and flipped on the light.

For a moment it was too bright—the bulb was uncovered, dangling from a short grey wire, and Dean blinked thrice before he could see clearly. Beneath the bulb was a bed, surprisingly clean-looking compared to everything else he’d seen in this place. The sheets were unwrinkled—freshly changed, apparently—and black, which was disconcerting. All the better for hiding stains. There were four cut-off posts at the corners of the bed with loops for chains. The sight of them took away any softness the fresh sheets brought to mind.

Another splash.

Finally, Dean dared to look over to the other wall, to the darker side of the room. He knew what he’d find there, but even so, he was unprepared.

There was a massive bathtub. It was supposed to look ornate, Dean was sure, but really it just looked tacky and dirty, like everything else. The tub had metal feet lifting it from the floor and an old-fashioned faucet to match. Beneath it, Dean could see a clogged-looking drain amidst a greasy puddle.

In the bathtub was a man.

A man! Why had Dean assumed that the creature would be female, all this time? Bias from the mythology, most likely. This male specimen was—to Dean’s eyes—ten times more beautiful than any of the pictures he’d seen in books. Blonde women with impressive breasts were great, but whoever put together all the lore that he and Sam had slogged through seemed to think mermaids only came in one variety.

Dean was pleased to see that wasn’t the case. (Not that he had anything against blonde hair…or boobs.)

Dark, voluminous hair that had the slightest curl to it crowned a handsome face with impressive cheekbones and soft, pouty lips. His eyes—fuck.

They were the blue of the ocean.

Not the dark, crappy, dingy ocean of floating trash and fishing boats that Dean had visited with Bobby once when he was eleven and Sam was seven. This was a _vivid_ blue, tropical and bright and gorgeous; entirely unearthly.

Dean’s gaze slid from the creature’s eyes to its wide, strong shoulders, and he felt his lips part a fraction in amazement. As he watched, little spined fins—very aerodynamic, or whatever the water equivalent was, Dean supposed—jutted from behind the creature’s shoulders, fanning outward. He almost looked like he was puffing up in displeasure, but after a moment they flattened back down once more. A smattering of gleaming, darkly iridescent scales capped his shoulders like glimmering pauldrons. Dean could see the beauty of the scales even in the unflattering white light.

A few seconds too late, Dean realized he was staring. The creature didn’t say anything of it—likely, Dean thought grimly, he was used to much worse. He simply returned Dean’s gaze with a grumpy look and hooked one elbow over the edge of the tub.

The mermaid—assuming that was _really_ what he was—dropped his eyebrows further as Dean stayed where he was, studying him wordlessly. Then, with another _whoosh_ that sent water all over the grimy floor, a huge tail rose from the water and flopped over the rim of the bathtub.

Dean gasped, inadvertently filling his lungs with salty dampness.

He couldn’t help himself—it was a freaking _tail,_ Jesus, and it was utterly gorgeous. Deep blue like the darkest parts of the sea, it would have been easy to mistake the scaling along the length of it for black. When the huge tail _swished_ and twitched in the light, though, it was _blue, blue, blue._ The flare of the large monofin at the end of the tail held Dean’s attention the longest—the color was similar, but it had a translucent quality that was fascinating. If Dean looked hard, he could see the grime of the bathtub beyond it.

Yeah, definitely a mermaid. Or merman, he supposed.

Dean’s thoughts were whirling but he needed to say something. The creature had spoken, had told him to turn on the light—so he obviously spoke English. That helped, Dean decided. He should explain why he was here.

“Don’t you dry out?” Dean found himself asking instead, pointing vaguely at the bed.

The merman’s head tilted slightly, his oceanic eyes regarding Dean with a hazy distance that Dean suspected was due to the sedation Earl had mentioned earlier. There was no other thing Dean could think of that would keep all the monsters here under control.

“That’s why you only get thirty minutes,” the creature replied.

“Ahh,” Dean said. “Well, I—I’m not here for that.”

In return, Dean got a raised eyebrow and a puzzled frown before the mer replied, “There’s only one thing people come here for.”

His tone was flat and emotionless. Something inside of Dean broke a little to hear it.

Dean had nothing against prostitution. What people did with their own bodies, as long as it was willing, was absolutely none of his business. But even moments into their acquaintance, Dean could tell that the merman had zero desire to be here.

“I know what people come here for, okay? But not me. I—” Dean started to say, but he was cut off by another splash as the creature’s muscled, impressive arms bent and pushed down, and he hauled himself over the edge of the grungy bathtub and onto the floor. He had thin, shiny webbing that stretched between each of his fingers.

A wave of water came with him, flooding the already overwhelmed drain. The water swept across the floor like it was glad for freedom—a word that should barely be whispered in this place—and lapped at the toes of Dean’s dress shoes.

With bulging biceps and a wiggling motion, the creature pulled himself across the concrete toward the bed. When he reached it, he grabbed onto the mattress and hoisted himself up without even looking at Dean, and rolled onto his back.

“Get on with it, whatever it is you want,” he said. His voice sounded like the crash of tumultuous tides against a cliffside, deep and rattling with gravel. Dean thought he could listen to that voice for hours.

Dean should have been nervous, but as he gulped and lowered himself to the edge of the mattress, all that filled him was a deep sadness. This was wrong, wrong, wrong.

“I’m really not here for that,” Dean said softly. “I swear.”

Another puzzled, disbelieving look.

“What’s your name?”

The merman blinked, a small jolt of shock running behind his blue eyes. Clearly, not a frequent question. Dean waited him out, determined to have an answer.

“Castiel.”

Dean swallowed back the urge to tell him that his name was as beautiful as he was. Wouldn’t want to give the guy the wrong impression. “I’m Dean,” he went with, instead.

Castiel inclined his head and murmured, “Alright, Dean. Clock’s ticking.” He reached across and wrapped thick fingers around the sleeve of Dean’s jacket, tugging suggestively with his pointed talons.

Dean pulled his arm back determinedly. “I mean it. I’m not here to have sex with you.”

Castiel stilled, seeming lost.

“I’m a hunter,” Dean began.

Wrong move. Castiel immediately recoiled, hauling himself back across the wide, sturdy bed toward the headboard. His tail thrashed wildly, smacking into Dean’s side hard enough to bruise deep. The merman opened his mouth, and Dean knew that if he let out the note he was forming, Dean’s eardrums would never recover.

Frantically, Dean dove forward and slapped a hand across his mouth. “No!” he bellowed frantically. “I am not here to hurt you, damn it!”

Beneath Dean’s hand, Castiel’s skin was unexpectedly warm and soft. Their eyes locked, and Dean’s body was pressing Castiel’s firm, bare chest down into the mattress—though surely not in quite the way he was used to.

Sensing movement against his shirt as Castiel panted in anger and fear, Dean looked down and realized that he had a line of gills down each side of his ribs, between the bones. They were bizarre-looking, yet fascinating. All of Castiel was fascinating, Dean admitted to himself, in a way that was so alien it was beautiful.

 _He’s a monster, just a creature, not human,_ Dean reminded himself. It already felt like a lie.

After a few seconds, the panic in Castiel subsided, the storms that had plagued the seas in his eyes retreating as his shoulders slowly slumped.

“Then what?” he asked, his words muffled as his lips shifted across Dean’s palm.

Slowly, Dean dropped his hand from Castiel’s mouth. He pulled back and bared both his palms to Castiel, settling back onto the edge of the mattress, holding his hands up in a gesture of truce.

“There’s a little boy,” Dean began to explain quietly, “in a town a couple of hours from here. He was cursed by a shaman because he thought the kid was going to expose some of the evil shit he’d been doing.”

Silently, Castiel’s head leaned to the left as he listened.

“He’s only six years old. He’s innocent. My brother and me, we killed the shaman that was holding him captive and we just want to help him.”

“You want some of my scales,” Castiel said, nodding slowly. “For a spell to purify him and drive the curse away.”

“Yeah.” Dean let out a puff of air, shrugging. “Wasn’t even sure you were real, so…don’t really know what to offer you in return, or anything.”

Castiel’s brow creased heartbreakingly. “In return? Most of the people who come here would just take them, if that’s what they desired. Some have, after taking everything else they wanted.”

As he spoke, Castiel shifted on the black sheet. His tail made an almost metallic _shush-ing_ noise as his scales glided across the cotton, and the light reflecting on them from above made the iridescence and bluish color even more noticeable. Castiel lifted his left hip and angled it toward Dean a fraction. Dean could see bare spots in places, patches where scales had been ripped out and had yet to regrow.

Dean felt unbearably cold. “I’m not here to take anything from you that you don’t want to give, Castiel,” he said carefully. “I need those scales and you’re the only way I can get them, but I am not like those other people. I promise.”

“So you say,” responded Castiel.

The salty air in the room was stale and unpleasant. Dean became very aware of it filling his lungs with dampness as the two of them sat and looked at each other. Castiel was pushed up on his elbows, his tail cascading down the bed, and Dean sat on the mattress next to his hip, his feet on the floor.

Dean hadn’t come here to have anything to do with _him,_ but he was curious. No, more than curious—he needed to know.

“How did you get here?” he asked quietly.

Castiel’s aqua gaze dipped away from Dean and turned, unseeing, in the direction of the bathtub. “I was captured. Bounty hunters found me and my brothers in Cascadia Basin, about four hundred of your ‘miles’ south of Vancouver Island. They ripped me from my family—I fought, but I failed. It’s a disgrace, a dishonor. It shames me more than what your kind do to me. I’ve grown used to that.”

“Grown used to it?” Dean asked in a whisper.

“I’ve been here for many years. I learned quickly that those matings didn’t mean anything to me, they were merely a function of my imprisonment. A transaction. It doesn’t bother me anymore. Complying is more efficient than attempting to resist.”

Dean’s stomach churned like a rolling sea. “That’s horrible.”

Castiel turned back to look at Dean then, his eyes catching Dean’s and holding intensely. “Yes. It is. But you won’t do anything about it. You’re just like them.”

“I’m not!” Dean protested, angry even though he knew he had no right to be. He wasn’t the person here who should be furious.

Their shared gaze held for a moment longer. Then Castiel brought one hand up to his shoulder, looking away only for a moment as he swiped one long, pointed finger over the curve of it. With an uncomfortable-looking digging motion, Castiel wiggled his claw-like nail and three of his gleaming, beautiful scales lifted from his skin.

Dean couldn’t help but grimace at the sound of them being torn from Castiel, slowly, one by one. _Slllltttcccchhht_ , they went, ending in a wet crunch that made Dean’s shoulders bunch up. It didn’t sound right, not a bit. If he didn’t need the scales to save the kid, he’d have immediately grabbed at the merman and begged him to stop.

Castiel looked at them in his palm, rolling them once over the creases of his skin before he reached forward, holding them out to Dean. “Take these and go, then. If that’s truly all you want from me.”

“You’re giving them to me?”

“My body doesn’t belong to me anymore, Dean. You paid money for it. So, by that measure, they were already yours.”

The statement sent Dean’s body into revolt, and it was all he could do not to throw the scales back at the beautiful, sad merman. It was such a horrid concept, having your autonomy stripped away to the point where…where…

 _He’s just a monster._ Dean knew that was the logic here, but he also knew he didn’t believe it for a second. Sam was right. Castiel hadn’t chosen to be here—and even if he had, he wasn’t a monster to begin with.

There was something happening here, some kind of _pull,_ some kind of connection that Dean wouldn’t—or couldn’t—have with a creature that didn’t have at least some kind of humanity in him.

“I—” Dean didn’t know what to say, so he gave up as soon as he started.

“Goodbye, Dean.” Castiel sounded so defeated that Dean couldn’t answer.

As soon as the door closed behind Dean’s back, all the horror and guilt and disgust crashed over him like a wave. This place _did_ deserve to burn.

His back to the slimy door, Dean let the feelings swish around inside him for a minute, giving the emotions their due. Then he straightened up and pushed them down, deep, deep, deeper, until they were buried under cold calculation.

Looking straight ahead as he walked, Dean cautiously counted every step through the vile, shabby, pink corridor. He memorized every carefully measured stride, forming a plan as he moved away from Castiel’s door and to the front, where Earl was waiting.

Luckily, they had several gas cans already in the car.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, folks! Protective Dean Winchester has been activated, and there's a lot of fluff and growing friendship coming your way.
> 
> Anyone else just want to give Cas a big hug?
> 
> Chapters will drop every other Tuesday for this one. There are quite a few bangs etc. that are posting, so I thought that posting every other week might give readers more of a chance to keep up. Let me know if that works better for you all!
> 
> Next week I have a short, Harlequin-esque romance fic posting as part of Regency Bang. If any of you feel like giving it a try, I'd love to see you there!
> 
> Please hit subscribe to be notified about that fic, and further chapters of this one.
> 
> As always, you can find me on Twitter, Tumblr, and on IG as mal_muses.
> 
> Thank you for coming along for the ride!
> 
> \- Mal <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday, y'all!
> 
> I was so happy with your responses to the first chapter and delighted that you all wanted to grab pitchforks (or tridents) and join Dean in his revenge on Earl and Brock Pleasure Ranch.
> 
> Before we get to that, though, I have to let you know that this chapter is wholly dedicated to [Castielslostwings.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings) I would have just gifted it to her, but AO3 wouldn't let me do that. Assbutt. So, instead, lavish thanks: she was a huge help with this chapter, and if you can, I'd love it if you'd go check out her currently posting WIP, [Wait for It.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26471326/chapters/64503292) (It's a great fic, I'm loving it!). Thanks so much, Wings. You're the best.
> 
> This chapter also brings you more amazing art from lizleeships! These pieces are some of my favorites ever. Do I say that every time? Maybe. But I mean it! Make sure to go take a peek at her post [over here]() and check her out on [social media.]()
> 
> With that, I won't keep you waiting anymore... back to Dean and Cas!
> 
> \- Mal

Screaming, howling, barking, roaring—a cacophony of monstrous sounds filled the air as the creatures behind the doors in the pink corridor sensed that something was _wrong._

Dean was swift and efficient, ignoring his bloodied knuckles as he methodically went through the keys for each door. It had taken a couple of bullets into the filthy glass behind the desk and several swift punches to get the keys from Earl, and Dean had thanked him with a swift crack around the back of his skull with the butt of his handgun.

He’d left Earl on the floor in the front. As far as Dean was concerned, he killed monsters, and some humans fit that definition just as well as their supernatural counterparts.

The keys jangled as Dean hurried. Some of them were simple and were easy to match to a lock. Others bore strange symbols, like Castiel’s had, and didn’t resemble the cheap brass numbers that had been screwed, uneven and dull, to the center of each door. So, Dean tried every one of them, staying calm, and carefully keeping track of how long it would take Sam to finish pouring the last of the gas around the building.

Because he was looking out for it, Dean sensed the distant noise and heat and smoke when he was only halfway down the hallway. The wisps of smoke were light, drifting in from the far end of the corridor, barely more than a distant haze.

But even so, Dean had to hurry. Smoke inhalation was no joke.

This had been a risky plan, perhaps—but it was also deeply satisfying in a way that shutting the brothel down in another way wouldn’t have been. Sam wasn’t happy about it, but he also couldn’t find many good reasons to argue. So, beaten by logic and Dean’s stubborn streak, he was helping.

With a click, the door Dean was standing in front of unlocked and he pushed it wide. Not even stopping to see what kind of creature occupied the room, Dean called within, “Run! The building’s on fire!”

They were monsters. He was a hunter.

He’d contemplated burning the brothel to the ground with them all inside but found that he couldn’t. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. As conflicted and strange as Dean felt about it, the truth was that these beings had been through tortures and hardships that Dean couldn’t imagine at the hands of the owners—and patrons—of this foul place, and they didn’t deserve to die here.

And Castiel…something inside Dean had profoundly changed when he’d see that beautiful creature, full of magic and strength and grace, brought so low. He wasn’t a monster. Dean knew it, was more confident about Castiel’s humanity than he could even be about his own.

So, he would free the monsters and burn their prison to the ground.

This was Dean’s one concession. If they met again in different circumstances, all bets were off.

But for now, he unlocked the doors, sent them on their way, and gave them the best shot at freedom that he could.

He was a hunter, but he wasn’t _cruel_.

The next door swung open more easily, and Dean was met with the toothfull maw of a scared-looking female vampire, already waiting, eager to flee. Her eyes had that same chemical, glassy look that Castiel’s had.

For a moment they looked at each other, predator to prey, but then Dean stepped away to the next door and she tore off up the corridor without a second glance. Not one of the creatures had attacked him.

Given everything they’d been through in their undoubtedly horrific time here, a hunter was a salvation—no matter how the fight would end—rather than a threat. But freedom was far more tempting.

They were monstrous, but they weren’t stupid.

Crackling sounds and a sense of warmth made Dean hurry. The corridor was getting smokier, the slinking puffs of warm air getting a little darker, beginning to slither down the corridor in Dean’s direction, and he knew the rough black bandana he’d tied around his face wouldn’t help for long if the sooty clouds started swallowing him up.

Time to go.

Slamming the last of the unknown doors open with another cry of, “Run!” Dean sent a fully transformed werewolf tearing away up the corridor. Turning his attention to door number thirteen, Dean quickly selected the last key he needed—the old fashioned one, with the slanted, odd-looking not-quite-a-thirteen engraved on it.

The room was heating up—Dean could feel the warmth growing even in the key between his fingers, he could feel it as a hot spot on his collarbone where his amulet rested, he could feel it in the metal of the gun that pressed against his back beneath his shirt.

That wasn’t a good sign; he had to move fast.

The smoke was now spreading along the ceiling of the corridor, dark and swift. With one eye on the billowing wisps, Dean began to beat his fist on the door as his other hand worked the lock. The heat around him was growing more and more intense as licking flames began to eat away at the exterior of the other rooms, sparks of red light breaking the increasingly smoky gloom.

“Cas! This place is going up in flames! You gotta get out!”

_Cas?_ Where had that come from?

Pushing the door open hard enough that it hit the wall and shuddered, Dean strode into the dark room, shifting from one smoky space to the next. Dean knew it wasn’t wise to turn on the light with flames licking around the outside of the building, so he relied on his memory of the room layout and the steadily more orange glow from beyond the door as he moved into the room.

“Cas?”

The dim light the corridor afforded him revealed Castiel to Dean. He was in his bathtub, sluggish and sedated, rolling onto his side as he slowly raised his head, heavy-looking, to regard Dean.

“It’s you,” he said, his low voice even raspier than Dean recalled it.

The drain grate below the tub was pouring smoke into the room at an alarming rate. Dean tried to work out how that was—before realizing that there must be a basement to the building that they hadn’t accounted for. If there were flames in the space below him, that explained the overwhelming heat—and put him in a lot more danger than he’d anticipated.

Dean had carefully measured out the distance to Castiel’s room so that Sam could start the fire on the other side of the building, away from the merman’s home-slash-cell, but even so, seconds were a luxury.

“Come on,” Dean said, hurrying over to the tub. “We don’t have a lot of time before it gets way too hot in here, we gotta get you out.”

Castiel blinked hazily. “I—I can’t,” he said, dull and confused. “I can’t walk, Dean. They took—that’s why I—”

_No time for this_ , Dean thought. With hurried fingers, Dean untied the bandana from his face and dunked it in the water that lapped around Castiel’s scales. The smoke was thickening, and anything he could do to keep that soot out of his mouth, he was going to do. Tying it straight back on, Dean gave Castiel a quick, reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, then bent forward. 

The fact that the merman couldn’t walk out of the brothel wasn’t something that Dean had really considered, but at least there was an obvious solution.

He briefly considered stripping the sheet from the bed and soaking it to cover Castiel in, as an extra barrier from the smoke, but decided that might take more time than just grabbing him and running.

Reaching down, Dean scooped his arms down beneath Castiel’s armpits and hauled, bracing his legs to drag the warm, damp merman up out of the tub. Castiel didn’t fight him, but damn, he was heavy.

“I’m gonna carry you,” Dean stated. “There’s a car outside. I can get you somewhere with water in under an hour. You said thirty minutes before, so I hope you can make it that long.”

One of Castiel’s strong arms curled up automatically around Dean’s neck as he nodded, appearing stunned to near-silence as Dean settled Castiel’s tail in his arms, bridal style. “I’ll try,” Castiel murmured dopily against Dean’s neck.

Whatever Earl gave Castiel to make him quiet and compliant was strong; as Dean adjusted his grip and made for the corridor once more, the sputtering, filthy strip lights reflected erratically back on eyes so dilated that the fantastic, ocean blue was only a thin ring.

The hallway was thicker with sooty smoke than Castiel’s room had been. Even as close as they were, Castiel’s eyes were getting harder to see, the lights above them failing to penetrate the gloom as Dean moved further away from Castiel’s room. Even so, he saw the merman gaze listlessly around, frowning curiously at the corridor.

Dean couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been since Castiel had seen anything but a gray concrete square, a violating bed, and a grimy bathtub.

  


Castiel let out a series of sharp coughs, and Dean could feel his gills gasping shakily against his palm where he was holding him. The soot must be even worse for the merman than it was for him, Dean realized.

“Just hold your breath, Cas, as long as you can,” Dean shouted over the increasing noise—the monsters were long gone, no howls or brays or screams remaining, but the building itself was now crying and cracking, the sound of its frame succumbing to flame.

The bead curtain at the end of the pink corridor was blackening from heat alone, a wall of choking warmth greeting Dean as he burst back out into the front of the building. Through the soupy air, Dean could make out Earl’s feet behind the desk, his dingy black sneakers parted and pointing away from each other.

Clenching his jaw, Dean turned his gaze away. The flames would mete out justice to Earl.

Coughing along with Castiel by then, Dean’s shoulders shook with the effort of holding up the huge, heavy tail. Staggering through the foyer, Dean was hyper-aware of the orange crackling of the office behind him, and the distant sound of a siren. He had to get out of here before the fire crew arrived—this place was far too cheap and grimy to have an alarm, he’d checked that on his way out the first time, but the folks over in the legal, shiny side of Brock Pleasure Ranch must have seen the flames by then and called 911.

The smell of burning wood and paint and plastic made Dean dizzy and nauseated. Castiel had gone still in his arms, his coughing weaker, and Dean wished he’d thought to grab the sheet after all, or bring some wet towels with him to wrap the merman with—they had a pile of them waiting, but they were in the Impala with Sam.

There were steps up from the side entrance that Dean had used, rickety metal ones that led into what appeared to be a maintenance shack behind the legal, human brothel. If Dean could just get up the stairs, keep one foot moving in front of the other—

“Dean!”

The sounds of the door at the top of the steps flying open, of a plastic gas can bouncing, and of his brother’s voice bellowing down the stairs bounced through Dean’s aching head and forced him to focus.

“Sammy! A little help!”

Sam’s hands were assisting with Castiel then, and the Impala was right outside the door, her backseat lined with a plastic tarp and a bunch of towels they’d stolen from their motel. It was dark outside, but the sky was beginning to reflect an eerie red glow on the cloud bottoms, signaling the rising flames to anyone who cared to look.

“Where’s his amulet?” Sam asked frantically as they pushed and shoved Castiel into the car.

“His what?” Dean asked, drawing in huge gulps of fresh, cold night air. It was an hour or so before dawn, the quietest time of day on the strip, Dean had hoped.

“Didn’t you pay attention to _any_ of the lore when we were researching the scales?” Sam scolded, running around to the driver’s side door.

“Sure, I did,” Dean rasped, his voice a little rough, but his head clearing. “Vicious fighters, but they don’t need special mojo to kill ‘em.”

That was lore. About as much lore as Dean ever thought he’d need.

Dean could feel Sam’s eye roll like it was a physical thing. Quickly tucking the transparent, beautiful blue of Castiel’s tail fin into the footwell—it felt like wet silk—Dean slammed the door and slid himself into the passenger seat. Usually, Dean would have complained at Sam’s presumption, settling behind the wheel and assuming he’d be driving. Dean’s own sooty reflection in the side view mirror, though, assured him he shouldn’t be driving just yet.

The escape from the fire had been a lot riskier than Dean had planned for, but all in all, he was fine. If he’d stayed a few more minutes though…

With Sam spinning them out of the parking lot at high speed, Dean grabbed ahold of the back of the bench seat for leverage and reached over to press his hand to Castiel’s scaly hip. The merman didn’t stir. But his gills moved, and he let out soft wheezing noises that were as reassuring as they were concerning. Tugging one of the wet towels up to Castiel’s waist, Dean braced his arm to hold him in place while Sam peeled them away from the neon strip and into darker alleyways, his foot down as he distanced them from the orange glow that was overtaking the _pink-blue-green, pink-blue green_ flashing neon signs for Brock Pleasure Ranch.

A fire crew was there by now, Dean told himself. They’d save the human brothel—drench it, no doubt, and probably tear down the shaky shacks between the door Dean had escaped from and the neat stucco of the honest business.

Dean hoped they suppressed the flames that might threaten the legal Ranch and left the rest to burn out.

“Is he okay?” Sam asked as they swung back onto the highway a couple of miles further out.

“Hope so,” Dean asked grimly. “We just need to get to the motel fast. Put him in the tub.”

Sam nodded grimly, settling them into an empty lane on the freeway before he reached down and grabbed a water bottle, tossing it to Dean. “Here. Breathe, have a drink. Don’t make me have to drag your dumb ass to the ER, Dean.”

Dean shot his brother an annoyed look but stayed quiet, keeping his attention on the immobile merman in the back as they drove. The horizon glowed gold as the growing peek of sunrise began to overtake the glow of flames.

“Are you going to be okay here if I head straight out?” Sam asked, gathering jars and books and things Dean didn’t care to name and shoving them into his army surplus duffel. They clanked and rattled horribly, making Dean wince.

“Yeah, I’m feeling fine. Just got a headache,” Dean reassured Sam over the sound of the zipper. At his brother’s slightly raised eyebrow, he added, “Promise, Sam. I’m good. I’m just gonna keep an eye on the merman and make sure he’s good.”

Alright, _headache_ was an understatement. Dean’s temples were pounding, he was croaky and sore, and his lungs felt like he’d been breathing in glass shards—but he wasn’t about to worry Sam over that. He’d felt much worse, and he was already improving with fresh air and sips of water, though he had a feeling the sore throat was going to hang around. 

Sam shook his head as he hefted the duffle to his shoulder. “I still can’t believe you had us rescue a mermaid. Of all the crazy shit you’ve done—”

“Let it go,” Dean grumbled. “I just—I connected with him somehow, okay? I couldn’t leave him there to _that.”_

Sam nodded as he moved through the door. “Yeah, I know. No one deserves that.”

Dean reached across to close the door behind Sam. “See you in a few hours, I guess?”

“Yeah. The spell isn’t difficult. Once the kid is good and I’ve torched the shaman’s body, I’ll grab some food and head right back.”

“Look after my car.”

“Yes, Dean—and I’ll take care, too.”

“Just be careful of her paint job, I just touched her up, that’s all I’m saying. I’ll be checking.”

“Jerk,” Sam grumbled as he shut the door.

“Bitch,” Dean murmured affectionately under his breath as he slipped the chain across the door and locked it. He didn’t need well-intentioned housekeepers coming into their surprisingly nice motel room and discovering a dude with a tail in the tub.

It would have been much more convenient—and a lot cheaper—if they’d stopped at a motel closer to White Pine County, rather than pushing over the border into Utah and heading east toward Salt Lake City. But Utah was closer to home than Nevada, and this motel was the only one they’d been able to find that had a room available with a bathtub. So here they were, an hour after dawn, in a room that was fairly luxurious compared to their usual spots.

It was still a motel, but at least it didn’t smell like anyone had died, there were no weird stains on the floor, and the magic fingers machine actually _worked._ Hallelujah.

As soon as the door was locked and double-checked, Dean headed straight back to the bathroom.

It was white—actually white, not dingy gray or yellowed—and smelled of soap and fake pine toilet cleaner. There were no windows, which was a blessing, and the tiled-in tub took up a good half of the room.

Dean eased down onto the floor, lowering himself onto the pillow that he’d stolen from Sam’s bed to cushion his knees. The faucet dribbled, but it was slowly filling up the tub with clear water. Castiel was curled onto his side, submerged as much as possible, though his tail still poked up ridiculously next to the shower pipes at the end. Dean had tucked Sam’s second pillow under Castiel’s head on the edge of the tub surround, trying to make him more comfortable—not that he was awake to appreciate it.

Hopefully he was just sleeping off whatever cocktail Earl had pumped him full of. The merman hadn’t stirred when Dean had lifted him from the back of the Impala, and for a while Dean had been worried—but when he’d lowered Castiel’s tail into the tub, his eyes had rolled beneath his eyelids and he’d given out a soft, relieved sigh.

Dean shook his own aching head, hoping that the pills he’d popped would kick in soon. There was a pile of washcloths next to the sink. Stretching up to grab one, Dean dunked it in the water that was slowly filling the plastic bathtub and began to gently wipe over Castiel’s scales.

He’d thought that the scales were beautiful before, in the dim light of the concrete brothel room, but now he realized that they’d been dulled by the murky water and miserable atmosphere. Here, with clean water and bright lights, the scales were _stunning_ —dark, with a blue iridescence that made them look almost holographic as the light hit.

But there were scars, too. A lot of them. Especially across the front of Castiel’s tail, the scales were scratched and rough in places—the wounds looked like drag marks, Dean realized.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean let out softly, his voice cracking with soot and emotion.

Of course—the rough concrete floor. Just another thing to keep Castiel trapped and uncomfortable. He’d had to drag himself back and forth across the unfinished floor every time one of his vile ‘clients’ had occupied that bed.

Dean felt a wave of nausea. Clenching his fists, he went back to carefully running fresh water over the scratches and dings in the beautiful tail, at a loss as to what else would help them heal.

He hoped Earl had burned.

Castiel shifted and gave out a low cough as Dean wrung out his cloth, but his eyes remained closed. Tossing the first washcloth into the sink, Dean retrieved a clean one.

The gills that lined Castiel’s chest seemed to fit between every other rib, growing smaller as they rose up to his shoulder and became thin, curved lines at the side of his neck. Dean couldn’t help but stare at them for a moment, watching them softly rise and fall with each of Castiel’s measured breaths. With another rasping cough Castiel jolted Dean out of his staring, and the motion of his chest as his lungs filled reminded Dean why he’d turned his attention to the gills in the first place—the soot.

Around the soft-looking edge of each of the gills were worrying dark lines, crumbly patches of dark dirt that clung to the flushed flesh within each of the slim cavities. Moistening the white washcloth he held, Dean reached to turn off the tap—the water was finally almost to the top of the tub—and settled himself more comfortably on his knees to begin clearing the soot from Castiel’s skin.

Dean tried to be careful—he had no idea if gills were sensitive, or if he’d hurt Castiel in some way if he wasn’t gentle. All he knew was that the soot surely wasn’t supposed to be there, so it had to go. Swishing the cloth back and forth across the outer flesh of the gills at first, Dean soon had them looking a lot cleaner.

The pinker flesh at the edges and dipping within, though, was still streaked with black. Dean was nervous to touch something that was so alien, but he didn’t seem to have much choice—another merman was hardly going to stroll in and give him instructions.

Castiel’s shifting was growing more frequent, his body twitching beneath the cloth—Dean wasn’t sure if he was waking up, or if the rough washcloth was just causing him discomfort. Either way, he grimaced in apology each time, and continued.

Under his breath, Dean sang quietly—the only volume really available to him at that point—humming and murmuring the song his mother had sung to him as a small child whenever he was upset, hoping that the lilting melody might bring some comfort to both of them as he worked.

_“Hey, Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better…”_ Dean kept rinsing his cloth, kept smoothing away the grime from Castiel’s warm skin.

“It’s okay, Cas. Nearly done,” Dean whispered. _“Hey, Jude, don't be afraid. You were made to go out and get her…the minute you let her under your skin, then you begin to make it better…”_

Dean wasn’t certain exactly when Castiel woke up, but as he moved up to the smaller gills at the side of the merman’s neck, he felt a weighty blue gaze on the side of his face. It was like the intense pressure of the ocean, staring down at Dean unerringly. The seas of Castiel’s eyes were deep and unfathomable, powerful in a way Dean couldn’t understand. But, despite knowing that the merman possessed the strength of easily ten human men (he did pay attention to some of Sam’s research, thank you), Dean found that he wasn’t afraid.

Even with Castiel’s pupils returned to their normal size—his eyes finally clear, the chemicals that had enslaved him gone, or at least fading—Dean trusted him.

He couldn’t say why. He knew it was probably stupid. But he did.

“Hey,” Dean said simply, clearing his rough throat and giving Castiel a small smile before he swished the cloth in the water, rinsing it, and returned to his task.

Castiel’s voice had been low before, but after breathing in the hot air from the fire it had reached rock bottom, deep and smoky like whiskey and gravel tumbling down stairs. The rumbling, rough rasp of his voice certainly sent Dean’s thoughts down to the basement, but _no._ He wasn’t going to be like those other people, the ones who took things from Castiel that he had no interest in giving.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel croaked, surprisingly calmly.

“Sorry about the soot,” Dean said, keeping his eyes on Castiel’s gills as he cleaned them. “That little rescue didn’t go quite as planned, but it worked out okay in the end.”

Dean felt Castiel’s gaze still on him, but he didn’t look up, concentrating on his washcloth as he quietly continued to speak. 

“I know moving from one tub to another isn’t fantastic, but we won’t be here long, I promise.”

Castiel didn’t respond with anything more than another low cough. They were spacing out, Dean registered with relief. Less coughing had to be good.

“Sam’s out tying up the loose ends with the shaman case, breaking the curse on that kid that we needed mermaid scales to help. Soon as he’s done with that, we’re gonna load up in the Impala and head back to Kansas,” Dean chattered while he worked.

Rinsing the cloth for the last couple of gills, Dean shot Castiel another little grin before he got started on them.

“Kansas ain’t exactly wet—a bit landlocked, all in all—but I figure we can get you there with a few stops for wet towels and that kinda stuff. It’s not gonna be dignified, but it’ll be fine. Then you can chill in the bunker’s pool and get your strength back while we work out a more reasonable way to transport you to the coast.”

Dean could feel the squint against the side of his face. He looked up, and he was right; Castiel’s puzzlement was obvious, his brow lightly furrowed in confusion over the simple fact that Dean planned to just… _let him go._

Tossing the cloth into the sink with the other one, Dean leaned back, his knees cracking as he finally took his weight off them.

The silence stretched on, and Dean was ready to say something about going to call Sam and check in—anything for the quiet to end, for Castiel to stop just looking at him unblinkingly—when Castiel’s tongue darted out, moistening his lips, his throat creaking before he spoke.

“Do you—”

“Here,” Dean said quickly, realizing that Castiel could barely speak. He reached over and grabbed one of the water bottles he’d stashed on the sink when he’d brought in the pillows, cracking the top and handing it over. “Just rest, for now. We can talk later, if you want to.”

Castiel didn’t thank Dean, only blinked dully in surprise before giving him a slow nod. The plastic creaked as Castiel gripped it tightly, letting some of the liquid trickle across his dry lips before taking a few slow gulps. He grimaced but didn’t complain.

He was probably used to saltwater.

Pushing up out of his crouch, Dean took a step back from the tub and jerked his head toward the bedroom. “I should go and check in with Sam.”

Castiel nodded, and Dean was almost out of the door when the merman’s low rasp made him pause.

“I was wrong,” Castiel said quietly, lolling against the pillow on the tub surround once more.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, pausing in the doorway, his eyes seeking out Castiel’s.

“What I said before was wrong,” Castiel croaked weakly. “You’re not like the others.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A RESCUE!
> 
> Castiel has a long way to go before he'll be truly free, but I'd say his situation improved _markedly_ this chapter!
> 
> What did you think of Dean's daring (or we could say reckless) rescue, and his care after? Dean's always been much better with actions than words, in my opinion. 
> 
> I hope you've all had a good week, and I'll see you in two more weeks with a new chapter! If you want to be notified of that (or my soon to be posted DCBB, or several other surprises) please click [here to subscribe!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile)
> 
> \- Mal <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, one and all!
> 
> I hope you've had a good couple of weeks since I last posted. And if you haven't, well, I'm sending you good wishes...and delivering another dose of mer fic, and gorgeous art from the absolutely marvelous and talented [lizleeships](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/?hl=en)! 
> 
> I'm eager to share this chapter so I won't keep you long, just enough to quickly thank EllenOfOz, captainhaterade, and every wonderful reader who has supported me so far.
> 
> Thank you, and enjoy!
> 
> \- Mal <3

Another day, another bathtub. That must be what Castiel’s life felt like at present, Dean thought. But at least each new tub was a step closer to freedom, to home. Hopefully. His most recent bathtub was tiled all around in a mossy green, and it was at least noticeably larger than all of the motel tubs that had peppered the drive between Nevada and Kansas. At least in this tub, in the bunker that was Dean’s home even if it wasn’t his own, Castiel could submerge his shoulders when he wanted. Dean avoided thinking about exactly what the Men of Letters had used it for—he had a feeling that luxurious bubble baths weren’t really on their radar.

Wiping his hands clean of the special foam soap he’d been using on the Impala, Dean walked down to the bathroom where Castiel was holed up. Dean was going to have to do a lot of airing out and cleaning to get the damp-towel smell out of Baby’s back seat, but he didn’t say as much, of course. It was hardly Castiel’s fault. Given the quality of the motels they’d stayed in on their journey, some of those towels probably hadn’t smelled great to start with. Once Dean reached the bathroom, he tossed the rag he’d been using on his hands into a hamper that he’d set up just inside the door.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said cheerfully. His words came out with a bit of a rasp, his throat still sore from the fire. 

He’d been lucky to get by with only some rough, sinus infection-like symptoms, and not pneumonia or something worse in his temporarily weakened lungs. 

As usual, Castiel was quiet, but he slowly turned his gaze to Dean from where it had been resting on the ceiling.

Moving to the edge of the tub, Dean lowered himself into a crouch to be at Castiel’s eye level. “Sam scrubbed out the old pool with a pressure washer from the garage and made sure there’s no chlorine left in it or anything,” he offered quietly. “We can fill it with freshwater, leave out the chemicals—we’ll just have to refresh the water every few days.”  _ Like a pet fish tank,  _ Dean thought but didn’t say. “You should be good to go; he started filling it a couple hours back, so there should be enough water for a bit of a paddle, at least.”

Castiel’s expression didn’t change much, but there was something grateful in his eyes as he nodded, Dean noticed. That was a good sign, at least.

“Gotta be better than a tub, right?” Dean tried.

“Yes, it will be an improvement,” Castiel admitted. His voice was always low and gravelly, but he was definitely still feeling the effects of the fire, too. “I haven’t been able to actually swim for—” He looked far away for a moment, silent seconds stretching out his whispered sentence, “—a very long time.”

“Well, if you’re ready to go down there, we can get you all submerged, Daryl Hannah,” Dean said.

“My name is Castiel.”

Dean rolled his eyes, pushing down on the tile surround of the tub to stand back up. His knees cracked, and Castiel eyed them distrustfully.

“I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on land all this time,” Dean said, “and no one ever showed you a movie. Seriously, ‘ _ Splash’ _ should have been the first thing you experienced when you came out of the water.”

“The first thing I experienced was my magic being ripped from me and the sensation of heavy, dry chains,” Castiel replied solemnly.

Dean pressed his lips together and shut the hell up.

Castiel held up his arms, ready to be lifted—it was a motion that they were both used to, by then, from having to carry him in and out of the Impala as they traveled from motel to motel. Even so, the way he trustingly raised his arms, accepting that Dean was going to help him move, wasn’t going to hurt him…it made something warm, a little, deep down in Dean’s chest.

Clenching his thighs and tensing his back, Dean scooped his arms down beneath Castiel’s tail and around his back, and straightened up. The merman was  _ solid _ , heavier than a full-grown human man, Dean was sure. It’d been a few years since he’d had a human male’s weight on top of him to compare, but he was certain that all of those tanned muscles and scales were pretty weighty.

Dean’s boots squeaked a little from the drips as he moved across the tile floor. Almost all of the bunker had wipe-clean floors of either tile or painted concrete, which had come in handy more than once. Being a hunter was a messy business. And it definitely turned out to be for the best once they’d moved a merman in—very drippy business, having mer-friends.

Walking slowly so as not to slip, Dean looked at Castiel and offered him a small smile. “It’s a little way to the pool—we didn’t even know this place had one when we first moved in. It’s behind an unmarked door next to the gym, so I hope that means they actually used it for swimming and not…well, whatever else those creepy Men of Letters types might keep in a pool.”

Castiel blinked in alarm. “They don’t sound much better than Earl,” he said.

“I like to think they were at least better than him, but they sure had their moments.”

“You and your brother—you are not Men of Letters, then?” Castiel was still quiet and croaky, but he sounded genuinely curious. He hadn’t asked all that many questions during their journey, so Dean took it as a good sign that he was getting a bit chattier.

“Nope,” Dean said proudly. “Free agents, the Winchesters. Saving people, hunting things, the family business.”

Castiel didn’t comment on the hunting—which, thinking of it, was probably for the best—but he did tilt his head endearingly to the side in thought and ask, “So, how did you end up here, if this is Men of Letters property? I have only heard stories of them, meant to make the young of my kind afraid of humans. But I thought they were very...exclusive.”

“Ah, yeah.” Dean nodded, understanding the question. “It’s a hereditary thing, that’s true. The Men of Letters are all but gone in the States now though, Cas. England still has some, but they can keep ‘em. Independent hunters have the U.S. covered. Our ancestors were actually members, though, so one of the last surviving members gave us his key, after a Knight of Hell wiped out all of his friends.”

Castiel looked alarmed but nodded slowly. “I see.”

Turning down the long corridor that led to the bunker’s gym and pool, Dean nodded ahead to the gray-painted metal door they were headed for. “Here we go, almost there.”

As they stepped toward the door it opened and Sam appeared in the doorway, damp from head to toe and wheeling a compact pressure washer behind him.

“All done, and it’s almost half-filled already,” he said to Dean, before turning his eyes to Castiel. “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel rumbled quietly.

They all hovered for a moment, but it was just awkward to have a three-way conversation when Dean was  _ holding _ one of the participants. So, he gave Sam a dismissive nod, and turned to get Castiel through the door.

“Thanks, Sam,” he said as his brother reached an arm back to hold the door open for them.

The pool room was simple and clean—all white walls and pale stone tile—and it was actually a little jarring to step inside and see the clear water over the mosaic bottom of the pool and  _ not _ smell chlorine. The pool itself was an impressive size—about forty feet long by twenty feet wide—so not exactly Olympic sized, but a damn sight better than a grungy tub, the way Dean saw it.

With a grunt, Dean lowered himself to one knee beside the pool. “Here ya go, Cas.”

The merman gazed around the room, slightly wide-eyed but silent.

“I know it’s not exactly home,” Dean began, feeling awkward again, “but it’s gotta be an improvement over Earl’s place, right? And hopefully it won’t be for too long—”

“Dean,” Castiel said, quiet and firm, as his hand came up to rest on the side of Dean’s jaw.

Dean found his face being turned, forced to look into Castiel’s startlingly blue eyes. He gulped under the intensity of Castiel’s gaze from so close.

“No one has shown me kindness like this in a very long time,” Castiel said, letting his hand slip away back to Dean’s chest. “The pool is a huge improvement. Thank you.”

“But we are gonna get you home,” Dean reiterated firmly. “We just gotta work out a way to get you across the country without motel-hopping every couple of hours. My credit cards can’t take it, for one thing.”

Castiel dropped his gaze guiltily.

“And—” Dean reached out, in turn, tugging Castiel’s jaw gently to urge his eyes back up. “—we gotta make sure you’re okay, too.”

“The damage to my tail will heal, you don’t need to—”

“Not what I mean, Cas,” Dean said more softly, holding Castiel’s gaze. “Nobody, human or mermaid, comes out of something like you experienced the same as they started, Cas. And different ain’t bad, but I really think you should talk to someone—see a doc or some kinda professional—about it all before you swim off back to wherever it is that you’re gonna go.”

“Talk to someone? You mean see a therapist?” Castiel eyed Dean disbelievingly, but there was a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he said, “Dean, I realize you may not have noticed—human eyes are legendarily bad—but I have a tail.”

Dean rolled his eyes and relaxed his arms, dumping Castiel dramatically down into the pool.

It was already more than half full, so Castiel fell safely down into several feet of water. He surfaced breathing calmly, of course, but with a distinctly ruffled glare. “That was rude,” he declared, shaking his head and causing a spray of water to  _ thwack _ wetly across Dean’s face.

“Ugh!” Dean complained, wiping at his face but grinning. “Well, that’s what you get for being sassy.”

Castiel eyed Dean levelly and folded his arms on the edge of the pool. “Sassy but true. I do have a tail, and scales, and I’m fairly sure that most humans that I might meet would have a wholly different reaction to me than you and your brother have.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that; humans are mostly assholes,” Dean conceded, “and they do think that you’re mythical, for the most part.”

Castiel nodded.

“But I know someone who’ll be fine with it, Cas, or I wouldn’t have suggested it.”

One of Castiel’s dark, thick eyebrows rose skeptically upwards. “You? You don’t strike me as the kind of person who cultivates good mental health.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open in offense, letting in the damp pool air for a long moment until he realized he had absolutely  _ nothing _ to respond with. Closing his mouth again with a snap, Dean shook his head and gave a low laugh before he responded. “Well, you’ve got my number there, for sure. I’m not the sharing type, for the most part. Probably should be, hunter’s life and all, but I don’t really have the time.”

Castiel’s expression was somewhat understanding, but he said nothing, still watching Dean as he crouched beside the pool.

“There’s a therapist a ways from here, Mia Vallens. She’s a shapeshifter who works as a grief counselor.”

Seemingly in spite of himself, Castiel looked curious. “So, she…”

“Transforms into people that folks need to say goodbye to or talk to, yup.”

“Well.” Something seemed to shut down behind Castiel’s ocean eyes as he snapped, “I certainly have no wish to ever see Earl’s face again, thank you.”

Dean sighed; Castiel was getting cagey and he clearly wasn’t going to win, here. But he wasn’t going to let this go, either. Sam had gone on for ages the night before, while Dean had been trying to watch TV, about how Cas likely had all kinds of trauma to deal with. Dean hadn’t missed half of Dr. Sexy for nothing. Humanity had treated Castiel terribly, and Dean was determined to do better.

Sam had been a huge help with this whole thing, actually, Dean would happily admit. It had been him that quietly pointed out, during their first night at the motel in Utah, that safe sex probably hadn’t been at the top of the list for any of Castiel’s unknown abusers in the past few years. They didn’t just need to find a therapist, but some way to get him tested for diseases and infections, too.

It was a long road ahead, most likely. And not just in terms of working out how to get him to the ocean.

“Will you just think about it? Please? She’s nice and she knows her shit, I promise,” Dean tried.

Slowly, Castiel nodded. “Very well. I’ll think about it.”

“Thanks,” Dean said. Wanting to break the odd tension, Dean reached down and dunked his hand in the water, flicking a little at Castiel with a smile. “For now, swim! You’ve got to want to, after all that time in tiny tubs.”

Unfolding his arms and cautiously turning from the wall of the pool, Castiel looked across the water before flicking his eyes back to Dean. His gaze held, wide and blue and emotional. “Dean, I…”

Castiel didn’t seem to know what else to say, so Dean spared him the chick flick moment by standing up out of his crouch and gesturing across to the other end of the pool. “C’mon, time to show off. How fast can you go?”

Castiel’s warm smile at Dean’s deflection thumped its way into Dean’s chest and made his heart stutter.

“Fast,” was all that Castiel said, before ducking down into the water and spinning off the wall like some kinda Olympic competitor.  _ Holy shit. _

The water barely rippled as he rocketed across the room, only the briefest of splashes breaking the surface at the far end as he spun and came back. Only seconds passed before he surfaced again, right back where he had been, his stoic face entirely broken with a wild, gleeful grin.

Dean’s heart gave up stuttering entirely, and he reflexively grabbed at his chest, reminding himself not to be such an idiot. “That was hella fast,” he agreed, a little too speedily, his words rushed together.

Castiel seemed not to notice, leaping upward before he cut the water with his hands, his magnificent tail gleaming as it flicked through the air. Dean, once again, got showered in water. He couldn’t care less, though, not as he watched Castiel spin and frolic in the water.

One hundred percent worth it.

The fresh water was clear, enabling Dean to see right to the tiled bottom, and the surprisingly deep pool (calling into question, once again, exactly what the Men of Letters had used it for) was filling fast with the extra help from several additional hoses Sam had set up at one side. Castiel had space to dive down and swim up toward the overhead lights, arching out of the water with glittering splashes and cutting back down into the deep end with barely a ripple. 

It was fascinating to watch Castiel swim, but, seeing that he was fully occupied—and likely would be for a while—Dean decided to excuse himself and go get a bite to eat and a shower before he hit the hay. After all this time, Castiel deserved a little privacy just as much as he deserved some deeper water, Dean figured.

Dean had always been a light sleeper. It came with the hunter territory, really—it wasn’t good to sleep too deeply when there were likely just many things hunting  _ you  _ as the reverse. Dean had always had to look after Sammy, always had to watch both of their backs, and always had to be on alert in case shit hit the fan. When they’d moved into the bunker, though, Dean had really tried to improve his nights, as best he could. A fantastic memory foam mattress, fluffy, fresh pillows like they  _ never _ found in motels, the safety of several locked doors, and a gun on the nightstand. And on the wall. And under the mattress.

It helped, for sure.

Even so, Dean still swung between extremes. On the good days—the days when hunts went well or there was a big bad to gank, and the single-minded focus kept Dean busy and feeling, at least partly, as if he was doing something worthwhile—on those days, a solid four hours was fine.

Or so he told himself. Four hours was better than the other extreme, when things weren’t going well, when the weight of all the people he  _ hadn’t  _ saved was too much. Then he could sleep for days, only shuffling from his room in crumpled pajama pants to retrieve more alcohol and the occasional pizza delivery to soak it up. He’d hole up in his room, not even changing his clothes, until Sam’s judgey eyebrow couldn’t control itself anymore, and Dean was forced to snap out of it for his brother’s sake.

That night, though, it wasn’t the voices in his own head that were keeping Dean awake.

It was a voice somewhere  _ else. _

He hadn’t known what it was when he first woke up, drifting from sleep far too gently for it to have been a  _ thump _ or a  _ crack _ or a footstep or a gun. Those noises would have had him catapulting up from the pillow and his hand flying to his gun without a thought, a domino effect that occurred before his eyes were even fully open. This wasn’t that subconscious panic. Whatever had woken him lured him from sleep softly, unobtrusively. It was something that wasn’t threatening, and something that, perhaps, he wasn’t even meant to hear.

Pulling up his knees and swinging his feet to the side of the bed, Dean padded to the door of his room. Easing it open quietly, with only a gentle  _ chink _ as the lock released—no need to wake Sam—Dean stood and listened.

The first thing that came to mind when he tried to name the sound was whale song.

Something ethereal and hard to place, the notes higher and clearer than a whale would make but, undoubtedly, a  _ song  _ rather than a noise.

Unable to help himself, Dean slipped down the corridor, following the alien notes. It was intermittent, but easy to follow.

The song was beautiful, he’d decided by the time he’d exited the corridor lined with bedrooms. The bunks had previously been filled with Men of Letters operatives but now it was just him and Sam, leaving most of the wing empty and echoey. The song reverberated achingly around the bunker, leading Dean onwards. It was truly, magically beautiful.

It picked up again and grew louder as he approached, astounding Dean with the beauty of it’s clear notes. But, as beautiful as the song was, by the time he’d crossed to the other side of the bunker and made his way down toward the gym, he’d realized it was also  _ sad _ .

Heartbreakingly, skin-tingly sad. If Dean was the kind of person who easily teared up, he’d have had damp tracks down his cheeks by the time he reached the pool door. As it was, he stopped to blink hard, reminding himself that he  _ wasn’t _ that kind of person.

Nope. Not Dean Winchester.

He rubbed his eyes, hard, before quietly pushing the door open.

The singing quietened again, perhaps about to come to an end, as Dean stepped inside the pool room. His novelty-sock covered feet found splashes and flicks of water even near the door.

“You don’t have to stop,” Dean said, feeling guilty.

Castiel jerked. He was sitting on the edge of the pool, leaning back on his hands as his tail swished lazily in the water. Dean had made him jump, clearly, and Castiel’s face flushed pink.

“Dean! I—I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”

Dean nodded as he made his way across to the edge of the pool. Not wanting to get his pajamas soaked, he hitched up the bottoms and rolled them above his knees before sitting down next to Castiel, discarding his socks and dropping his feet into the water. He left a bit of space between them, not wanting to crowd him. “It’s alright,” he said. “I don’t usually sleep much, anyway.”

Castiel looked unsure.

“’Sides, that was beautiful,” Dean said, trying to sound reassuring. “Bit sad, sure, but dude—wow. Your voice is something else.”

In a motion that Dean could only call  _ shy _ —a whole new emotion for the merman to display—Castiel dropped his eyes from Dean to the water as he said, “Thank you. No one has heard me sing for many years.”

“Watch out, Cas,” Dean said playfully, wanting to lighten the mood. “You’ll have me thinkin’ I’m special, if you’re not careful.”

Castiel didn’t answer. He looked up, regarding Dean strangely, his eyes intense as his head tilted slightly to the left.

Unnerved by how raw and stripping his stare felt, Dean turned to look across the pool. The bunker had soft, recessed lighting that kept the pool somewhat illuminated, even at night, and he could make out the ripples caused by his feet and Castiel’s tail as they raced away from them both, flattening out halfway to the other side.

“What were you singing about?” Dean asked, keeping his eyes ahead. “Was it, like…words? I mean, mer have…your own speech, right? Like a language? You must have.”

“Mermish,” Castiel said, sounding slightly amused. “That’s what it’s called.”

“Right, okay, yeah…that.” Dean said, shrugging and feeling a little dumb. Maybe he really should have read some of Sam’s stupid research.

Castiel didn’t respond for a moment, and Dean started to think he wasn’t going to get an answer at all when Castiel bent over, dipping his hands into the water. Once they were wet again though, he lifted one up, turning it in front of his face and watching the droplets make gleaming trails over the stretchy webbing between his fingers.

He continued to study them as he spoke.

“Mer voices are more versatile than human voices,” he began in a soft rumble. “We can talk, just like you and I now, or we can sing—that might mean just music, how you hear it, or it can be…like a prayer, almost. A way to communicate across miles. Our hearing is also more discerning. Once a mer knows someone’s voice, they will always be able to find them, no matter how far. It’s a unique note, you see.”

Dean wasn’t quite sure he did see, but he nodded anyway. Castiel had never spoken so much in one go, so he smiled encouragingly, turning to look at him, and let him continue.

“Even now, after so many years, I still recall the voices of my brothers. They won’t sing to me again—not after the shame of my involvement with humans. But I’ll recognize their notes from thousands of miles, all my life.”

Like a whip, anger tightened around Dean’s spine, yanking his back straighter. “It wasn’t your fault that—”

“They don’t care, Dean,” Castiel interrupted calmly, dipping his hand back down into the pool to collect more water. “There are rules.”

Dean clenched a fist against the tile beside his thigh, on the opposite side of his body so Castiel wouldn’t see. Castiel’s family sounded like dicks, all of them. A big ol’ bag of dicks. Even so, he tried to dial his anger back; it wasn’t his place. He let out a small, deliberate exhale, letting it go. Trying to.

More than anything, Dean wanted Castiel to talk to Dr. Vallens. Not just for the horror he’d lived through back at Brock Pleasure Ranch, but for the loss of his family and this shame that he carried but wouldn’t really talk about. 

But not now. Dean had tried enough for one day; he wasn’t about to push. Castiel was finally starting to talk to him, perhaps even to befriend him. Peer pressure could wait—Castiel clearly needed a friend first of all, and really, so did Dean. Hunting was a lonely life.

Castiel flicked his eyes over to Dean as he sighed, but said nothing.

“I guess it’s not an issue that often, living as deep as you guys mostly do,” Dean said, wanting to show off the one bit of Sam’s late-night research from back in Nevada that he  _ did _ recall. “You live in the twilight zone and even further down, right? Like, six hundred feet under or more? That’s why your eyesight is so much better than a human’s. Guess you don’t get many visitors down there.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth gave a tiny twitch, as if he found Dean somewhat amusing, in spite of himself. “Yes, Dean. Not many visitors that deep, so it’s easy to keep ourselves hidden. And you’re very slow.”

Dean would have been offended on behalf of his species, but he’d  _ seen _ Castiel swim.

“Of course, mer do sometimes meet humans on land, but that’s much less of a concern. It’s letting you see our tails or scales that’s an issue.”

Furrowing his brow curiously, Dean leaned his weight onto one arm as he regarded Castiel again, ending up closer to him even if that hadn’t been his intention. “On land?” he asked, peering down at Castiel’s swishing fins. “How would someone  _ not _ see your tail if you were on land? It’s not exactly subtle, Cas. Not that—I mean—it’s stunning. It’s really fucking gorgeous, seriously. Fantastic. I’m not saying anything bad about it, I promise, but it’s kinda...in your face.”

Castiel’s head tilted slowly to the side, a tiny, slow smile building on his lips as he watched Dean babble. He was flushing around his neck gills, and his angled head made him look intrigued and softly surprised, as if he was just working something out; though what great revelation Dean had caused with that mess, he couldn’t guess.

“Mer are usually able to walk on land among men,” Castiel said once the moment had passed. “We possess great magic, you know that. We can transform.”

Dean nodded slowly, feeling like he was missing a piece. “Okay, so…why didn’t you just transform and walk out of the fire?”

A specter ghosted its way across Castiel’s face as his hand rose to his collarbone; his fingers curled around nothing, only barely touching skin before his arm dropped, limp. “Earl, he took—” Castiel stopped, and started again. “We have amulets. They are bound to us, we’re given them when we are born. They hold our magic for us when we are on land—we can’t use it above the waves. But if our magic is stripped from us, held in our amulet and then stolen away…then we are stuck. We can’t transform.”

Dean felt like he was surfacing after a long dive. Cas had mentioned an amulet before—so had Sam, back in Nevada. Damn it, he hadn’t paid attention. He licked his lips, ducking his head to look at Castiel’s fallen face again as he worded himself carefully. “So that’s what Earl did to you. That’s how he got a merman in true form on land.”

Castiel’s fathomless eyes held an ocean of sorrow, big and wide, as he looked back at Dean. He smiled like he was embarrassed of the fact, but he nodded. “Earl ripped my essence from me. The core of who I am. Then he took my amulet and hid it, or destroyed it, I don’t know for sure. That was years ago.”

“Oh,” Dean said softly. “And there’s no way to get your magic back?”

Stretching across his bare chest as if in demonstration, Castiel’s webbed fingers curled against his damp skin. “No, it—it regenerates, I suppose you’d say. Slowly, over time. But I have nowhere to keep it, nothing to give me access to it.”

“So, the amulet is just a…a tool?” Dean said, trying to wrap his head around it. “You can’t get another one?”

Castiel’s sardonic brow raise was rather more cutting than it needed to be, Dean felt.

“Do you think a mer is likely to give one up?” he asked dryly.

Dean pursed his lips, dropping his gaze back to the water. Right. Of course not—stupid question.

Filing away that information, Dean decided that the amulet thing was a problem for another day. Right now, he just wanted to get a smile back on Castiel’s face. It might be tiny, a mere tweak of his stoic expression, but now that Dean had seen that smile he found that he kinda liked it. And he wanted to see it on Cas a lot more often.

“So, if mer never forget a voice once they’ve heard it sing, does that mean that you’re doomed to hearing me sing the whole of  _ Led Zeppelin II _ forever?” Dean asked, smirking.

Castiel gave an amused little snort. “You played nothing but that album from Nevada to here. You sang along to  _ ‘Ramble On’ _ sixty-four times. Even if I wasn’t a merman, forgetting would be impossible.”

Dean clutched his chest in mock offense. “Are you trying to say I sound bad, Flipper?”

Castiel smiled serenely. “You have a lovely voice, Dean…for a human.”

“You—” Dean reached down, sweeping his arm sharply across the surface of the pool. Water crashed up and hit Castiel in the face, knocking him back a few inches.

The water did absolutely nothing to the merman, of course—it didn’t even stop him laughing—but it did earn Dean a dunk in the pool of his own.

With a swift shove, Dean was face-first in the shallow end—pajamas and all.

He came up spluttering and shrieking dramatically. “I could have drowned!”

Castiel rolled his eyes heavily, slipping elegantly off the edge of the tiles and down into the water beside him. “In water you can stand in, with me right here? Unlikely.”

“Well, at least you wouldn’t stand there and watch me sink, I suppose,” Dean grumbled, peeling his soaked t-shirt up over his head. It stuck to his skin horribly and made a loud, wet  _ thwap _ -ing noise as he tossed it onto the side of the pool.

Dean  _ felt _ Castiel’s eyes on him as he stripped, they were too blue and too intense to miss, but by the time he’d deposited his sodden plaid pants next to his shirt—leaving on his boxer briefs for a  _ little _ modesty—and turned back, Castiel’s eyes were firmly on the other end of the pool. 

On his shoulder blades, Castiel’s spiny fins flexed and twitched subtly. “You can swim, can’t you?” he asked, suddenly sounding much more doubtful.

“Yeah, man,” Dean said, laughing softly. “I’m just messing with you. I can swim pretty well.”

The fins settled once more, and when Castiel looked back over his shoulder at Dean, it was with exactly the small, warm smile that Dean had been hoping to revive.

“In that case, Dean—” Castiel jerked his head to the other end of the pool, “—I’ll race you.”

With a flick of his tail and a wave so large it nearly knocked Dean off his feet, Castiel arced into the water.

“Hey!” Dean protested, propelling himself forward with a much less elegant splash. “Unfair start, cheater!”

At the other end of the pool, Castiel leaned his elbows back on the wall and watched Dean breaststroke unevenly toward him, kindly biting back his smile—or at least attempting to.

“Not bad,” he said, clearly not meaning it. “With enough practice, you might be able to catch a small mer child.”

“Just because I rescued you doesn’t mean you wouldn’t make good sushi, pal.”

“You told Sam that sushi was for hipsters and men who wear sandals,” Castiel said smugly. “I was at least half-conscious on the back seat, I heard.”

Instead of saying that he could just feed him to Sam instead, Dean just chuckled and shook his head. “It’s good to see you joking and smiling a bit, Cas. Really. If it’s at the expense of my bowlegs and poor swimming form, I’ll take it.”

Castiel smiled softly as he gazed openly at Dean, the Pacific tones of his eyes glinting in the dim light, like an extension of the water itself. Their shared look locked and held. There was something there, Dean thought, something that had been pulling at Dean since the first moments they’d met. He wasn’t sure what it was, yet, but he knew that he was already helplessly lost in the tide. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a reminder with this fic: It is in no way meant to represent a 'correct' or accurate method of recovery from the kinds of horrors Castiel has been through, and I am not a doctor or a psychologist. I'll leave that to the experts. 
> 
> There's a lot of them to work through, but I think I sense the beginnings of trust and fluff, folks...
> 
> Question of the week: Castiel is starting to open up, little by little, and he's got a bit of a sassy streak in there somewhere...but he's still quite puzzled by Dean, sometimes. Do you think he'll agree to Dean's request to see Dr. Vallens?
> 
> I hope you have a great rest of your week! 
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> P.S. My DCBB posts tomorrow! It's a lighthearted, mistaken identity BDSM story. I'm very nervous/excited, but I hope to see some of you there if it might be your type of thing! If you'd like to be notified when it's up, [please hit subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile) or check out my [IG](https://www.instagram.com/mal_muses/?hl=en), [Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MalMuses).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, folks!
> 
> How are you all? I hope you're doing well. Fall is arriving where I live, and I'm struggling with the change of seasons--probably because it doesn't really feel like we even had a summer this year, being 2020 and all. Halloween is one of my favorite holidays, though, so I'm hoping that'll perk me up soon.
> 
> I've got another dose of fluff for y'all, this week! A bit of plot is, of course, coming your way, but I couldn't help myself but give you all a little more Dean and Cas bonding first, and a bit more Sam!
> 
> One note for this week: Before someone gets upset about it (there's always one!): yes, I am aware that Dean says he is feeding Castiel freshwater fish, but then later he crunches on cockles, which are saltwater bivalves. But if you think I'm letting reality stop me from jokingly inserting the word 'cockles' into a Dean/Cas fic at every opportunity, you are greatly mistaken. For the other 99.99% of you...enjoy the shellfish joke.
> 
> We've got another gorgeous (and funny!) art piece from the amazing [lizleeships](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/?hl=en) this week! It's probably my favorite piece, simply because of the amount of time over the last couple of months that Liz and I have spent _CRONCH_ -ing at each other in DMs. (It'll make sense when you get there, I promise.)
> 
> Give her art post some love [here!](https://lizleeships.tumblr.com/post/632545557884354560/lizleeships-lizleeships-lizleeships-im)
> 
> Thanks, as always, go to [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) and captainhaterade.
> 
> \- Mal <3

Evenings swimming at the bunker became Dean’s new normal, whenever he wasn’t out on a case. Even on the days when he and Sam staggered back into the bunker bleeding and pissed, when things hadn’t gone to plan, hanging out with Castiel was soon Dean’s favorite way to unwind.

“Alright,” Dean said to Sam, dragging a towel across his freshly showered head as he padded barefoot through the war room. “Burgers?”

“Sure,” Sam replied. “Gonna be honest, I’m too tired to care. Who’d have thought you could fit that many werewolves in a Winnebago?”

Looking across at Sam where he sat, slumped, at the top of the map table, Dean shook his head in agreeing disbelief. “They just kept pouring out, like clowns from one of those tiny cars…”

Sam grimaced. Dean tried to lighten his expression by throwing his damp town at his face; Sam didn’t look impressed, but neither of them had the will to fight over Dean’s obnoxiousness.

“Burgers,” Sam reminded Dean as he bundled up the damp towel. “I’ll dump this in the laundry room with my stuff, then you will find me face down on a mattress for the foreseeable future.”

“Roger,” Dean confirmed. “Once we’ve eaten, I’ll take Cas his food and then veg out in front of a movie.”

“Great,” Sam confirmed distantly, already shuffling off toward his room. “Get some sleep, we’ve got to help Donna with that haunting tomorrow.”

Dean groaned, but let the complaint roll away with a shrug of his shoulders. He didn’t mind being busy; in fact, he preferred it. Made him feel useful. Hanging around the bunker and being domestic was nice, but he could only do it for so long before he got…well, a bit lonely, a bit too in his own head. Not that he’d admit that to anybody. And not that Sam wasn’t good company, or anything. But sometimes a man needed to see a face that wasn’t his brother’s.

With that thought bouncing around the back of his head, Dean headed off to the kitchen to concoct something tempting for Castiel while the burgers cooked. And by that, he meant stick some fish on a platter and try to make them look…well, not quite as dead.

The bunker kitchen had a bit of an industrial feel—metal shelves and old, fifties-style cabinets under a sink that could wash the dishes of easily fifty people. Which was exactly what it had been used for, once, Dean supposed. These days, the kitchen only fed himself and Sam, and now Castiel, of course.

Once he had some of his own burger patties sizzling away on the stovetop, Dean opened the refrigerator and peered inside. Castiel was a piscivore; he only ate fish. Dean had thought to ask him that while they were on the way back from Nevada—luckily, because otherwise he hadn’t been thinking straight at all—and Sam had quickly found them a wholesale fish market and a cooler to complete the journey and get Castiel’s strength back up. Since then, Dean had driven to Ladow’s Supermarket in Lebanon every two days and grabbed whatever fresh fish the owners had on hand. They were starting to look at him oddly when he stepped through the door.

The fish was mostly farm-raised freshwater stuff or chilled shellfish, this far from the coast, and Castiel had squinted firmly at some of his meals—but he hadn’t said a word. Earl, apparently, had considered it enough to throw Castiel the occasional still frozen cod fillet from Costco, like he was a dog that needed something bland to chew. Dean was pretty certain that Castiel vastly preferred his new diet.

Slipping two whole rainbow trout and a handful of cockles onto a plate, Dean set them aside for a minute to construct his and Sam’s burgers.

Dean’s burger disappeared in four huge gulps since there was no one in the kitchen to get all bitch-faced about his eating habits. Once Sam’s had been delivered to his bedroom, eliciting a grateful, sleepy mumble, Dean walked on down to the pool room.

It was silent as he approached, no singing, no splashing. When Dean pushed open the door with his foot, he saw Castiel in the middle of the pool, idly floating on his back, practically motionless.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean called. “I brought dinner.”

With a flip of his tail Castiel submerged, then reappeared a moment later at the end of the pool closest to the door, near the steps. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean crouched, lowering Castiel’s plate to the edge of the pool with a flourish. “The best and freshest a landlocked state can give you.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth tweaked in amusement. “It’s not fish ice, so I’m already inclined to feel a bit spoiled.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll stick to my burgers, I think. Never was a big fan of fish.”

Holding Dean’s gaze, Castiel picked up a cockle from the plate and tossed it into his mouth, shell and all, snapping his teeth with an incredibly disturbing  _ crunch. _ Despite having seen Castiel eat before, Dean watched, wide-eyed and just a little horrified.

_ Crack! _

Dean looked at Castiel’s sharp, strong teeth in alarm. “And men seriously used to—”

Castiel’s eyes flicked down the plate, focusing very intently on retrieving more raw mollusk snacks.

“Sorry,” Dean said quietly down to his plate. “Guess you don’t want to talk about that, huh? My bad.”

After a few more appalling crunching noises, Castiel returned his eyes to Dean. “I think I can decide for myself what I will and won’t talk about. And you would be surprised”—Castiel delicately picked up another cockle between two fingers—“how many human men enjoy the thrill.”

_ Crunch! _

Dean had a sudden urge to cross his legs. He resisted, but it was a close thing. 

Castiel gave Dean a small smirk before he reached up to the edge of the pool, water cascading over his biceps as he hauled himself upward onto the tile. Twisting around so that he sat perched on the edge, his tail cascading down into the water, Castiel reached to retrieve the plate and sit it on his lap.

“Thank you, Dean,” he said. He smiled down at the pair of rainbow trout as he picked one of them up, but his expression fell into a small frown as he regarded it. “I don’t know how I will ever be able to repay you for the kindness you’ve shown me. I have nothing of value, and my only worth to you is something you reject. I don’t know how else to—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupted, fighting with his voice to come out softly rather than angrily. “First, kindness is a gift. You keep those, it’s not a loan. Nothin’ to be paid back here, okay?”

Castiel raised his gaze to Dean’s own and gave a slight nod, though he didn’t look wholly convinced.

“And secondly, your worth is just being  _ you.  _ You don’t owe anyone anything. And Cas, I don’t—” Dean stopped abruptly, moistening his lips and shaking his head as he tried to work out how the fuck to phrase his  _ many _ thoughts. “I didn’t  _ reject _ you back at that brothel. What you were offering wasn’t  _ willing _ , so I wanted nothing to do with it. As simple as that, Cas. It wasn’t personal.”

Slowly, Castiel’s eyes dropped back to the fish he held between both hands. He seemed to think on Dean’s words for a moment before nodding, then lifting the fish to his mouth for a small bite, scales and all. The bones crunched, but at least not as badly as the shellfish.

While Castiel had his mouth too full to interrupt, Dean continued.

“Me and Sam, we got you out of that place because it was the right thing to do. And we’ll find a way to get you back to the ocean for the same reason. Beyond that—” Dean shrugged, a sort of sad, hopeful balloon filling his chest. “Shit. Beyond that, I’d be happy if you just wanted to be friends. But it ain’t a requirement, Cas. I can leave you alone.”

Castiel lowered the fish back to his plate but didn’t let go of it. He fixed Dean with a small, almost shy, smile and nodded. “Friends. I admit, I…I’ve never really had one of those. Even before Earl had me captured, I had my brothers but no friends.”

“Well, you do now, I guess,” Dean announced. He hoped his confident smile belied the fact that he’d rarely had anyone in his life who could be described as a friend, either. “I was going to go and fall asleep in front of a movie, but I could probably be persuaded to take a swim instead, if you want some company.”

Castiel finished devouring his dinner, leaving an empty—if slightly scale-covered—plate, before he answered Dean. “You said that seeing movies is something that I should have done above the water, if I hadn’t been imprisoned.”

Grinning hopefully, Dean pushed up out of his crouch and folded his arms, looking down at Castiel on the tiles. “You sayin’ you wanna watch a movie with me, Cas?”

“I don’t know if it’s possible, really,” Castiel said, sounding apprehensive again.

“If we can get you across state lines, we can watch a movie. Trust me.”

Slowly, Castiel moved his dinner plate from his lap onto the tiles beside him, his shoulder fins flexing twice before he looked up at Dean. He had a small smile on his face, but his eyes were solemn as he said, “I find that I do.”

Warmth washed through Dean’s chest like he was sinking into a hot bath; he hoped Castiel couldn’t tell. “Yeah, well,” he said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “How about I go tidy up, now that we’re done with dinner, and I’ll come back with a wet blanket or something? We’ll see how long you can comfortably hang out in the cave that way.”

“The cave?” Castiel’s brow creased deeply.

“The Dean cave,” Dean answered proudly, grinning. “My own personal sanctuary—you’ll see.”

“Very well.”

Dean grabbed the dirty fish plate and took it back to the kitchen. He had a few ideas how this could work—ones that were worth a try, at least. After a stop in the garage for a plastic tarp and a brief detour to grab a few thick, unused blankets from the laundry room, Dean had the TV area set up and ready to go.

“Last chance to back out!” he announced, striding back into the pool room.

“Should I?” Castiel asked suspiciously from the water, sunk down right up to his chin.

“Nope. As we established, you should trust me. Come on, I can’t reach you over there.”

Castiel swam up to the edge and hauled himself up with a splashing cascade of water. Dean settled his feet shoulder width apart and bent down, scooping the merman up with practiced ease. Castiel’s arms were looped into place around his neck before he’d even fully straightened up. Dean smiled to himself but said nothing.

“Did you have a particular movie in mind?” Castiel asked, his voice rumbling close to Dean’s face. The raspiness from the fire was gone, but even so Castiel’s voice sounded like the low rumble of a sea storm. It was deep, and commanding, and…well, sexy, if Dean was honest.

Shoving that thought aside, Dean threw Castiel a grin as he moved through the silent corridors of the bunker. “I was thinking we’d start you off with some classics:  _ Star Wars, Die Hard, Alien _ …then move into some of the bigger modern stuff, Marvel, DC, that kinda thing.”

Castiel hummed thoughtfully. “Is one of those the movie that you said I should see? You used a reference and I didn’t understand it. I would like to.”

Recalling, Dean laughed. “ _ Splash? _ You wanna watch an eighties rom com?”

As Dean walked into the dim lighting of the room that he’d christened his “Dean cave,” Castiel shrugged in his arms.

“Whatever that is, yes,” he said decisively.

“Well, I guess if we’re popping your movie cherry, you get to pick.”

Castiel squinted in incomprehension but was distracted by his view of the Dean cave before he could say anything.

The room had two big La-Z-Boy recliners and a widescreen TV. It wasn’t fancy, but it was cozy. The small, square space in the far reaches of the bunker housed Dean’s collection of vinyl records and his player, and he’d attempted to construct a bar along the far wall. Right now, it was just a credenza topped with two concrete blocks that had a couple of planks balanced between them, but it was decorated with whiskey bottles, so it counted. He’d finish it one day, when he wasn’t busy with hunts and mermen.

Dean had thrown a thick tarp from the garage over one of the recliners to protect it, then he’d layered a wet blanket on top. He had another blanket rolled up in a bucket of water next to the chair, ready to place over Cas while he watched the movie.

Castiel observed the chair’s modifications. “You’re sure that this is okay? If it’s too much trouble—”

“Nah,” Dean dismissed quickly. “Tarp, blanket, bucket. We’re all good to go.”

Going slowly, so as not to slip and drop him, Dean settled Castiel into the damp chair. He was relieved to have Cas’ weight off his back—he’d always hated anything that resembled going to the gym, and all this merman-lifting was starting to feel like the basically same thing—and was glad to see Castiel eyeing his improvements to the makeshift TV room approvingly.

“Here you go,” Dean said, unfolding the wet blanket and spreading it over Castiel up to his chest. It dripped everywhere, and Dean was once again grateful for the easily cleaned floors.

It took Dean a few minutes to find the movie—it wasn’t one that he’d seen in years, but a fake credit card belonging to Mr. Jimmy Page soon had the cheesy eighties intro streaming onto the TV screen.

Castiel sat up attentively, watching the movie begin like it was his first day of class.

Dean smirked and hunkered down in his seat, watching Castiel as much as he watched the movie.

“That’ll be eight ninety-four,” the pimpled teen at the Target register said.

Dean wrangled the hard-plastic kiddie pool back into his shopping cart so that he could dig out his wallet, briefly pausing to work out which fake credit card was furthest from its limit.

“Surprised we had any of those left at this time of year,” the kid said conversationally. “Not really the season for kids to be swimming outside.”

“It was on clearance,” Dean snapped. If there was one thing that he knew about Target, it was that something being on clearance was all the justification required to go home with a whole cart worth of out-of-season junk.

The kid nodded knowingly as he turned the card machine toward Dean so that he could swipe John Bonham’s credit card.

Dean grit his teeth through the cheery goodbye—one bonus to shopping at Wally-World was that everyone there ignored you, Dean decided—and pushed his unwieldy prize out into the parking lot. It had taken some hunting to find the small wading pool, and not the kind of hunting that Dean was used to. But, triumphant, he was ready to head back to the bunker and get it set up for Cas in the Dean cave, in place of the second recliner.

Once he could get the bastard thing in Baby, anyway.

The trunk was full of important stuff that he wasn’t going to move just for one little shopping trip—everything from guns to shovels to grenade launchers—and the back door wasn’t quite tall enough to get the purple plastic pool in easily. Eventually, though, with some huffing and puffing and angling that an engineer would have been proud of, Dean managed to wedge it over the back seat. He couldn’t see out of the fucking rear view mirror, but he had a feeling no one of interest would be tailing an Impala that looked like it was on its way to a kids’ party, and if someone got close enough that his braking bothered them, well, that was their problem.

He stopped off for fresh fish, pizza, and some kind of salad for Sam that was covered in seeds. Frankly, Dean would rather follow Castiel’s shark food diet than Sam’s bird food one. Once he was all loaded up, Dean swung Baby onto the highway and sped back to Lebanon.

“What the hell is that?” Sam asked before Dean had even had a chance to consider sneaking the puddle-sized pool past him. “Are you planning a water birth?”

“Shuddup, bitch, it’s for Cas,” Dean said distractedly, persuading the pool around the corner of the stairs.

“Cas is having a water birth? Wow, where was my announcement card?”

“Stop being a dick and help me. It’s not heavy but its awkward as fuck.”

“Just throw it down, I’ll catch it.”

Dean tipped the pool over the wrought iron banister and let Sam deal with it while he hauled the pizza and rest of the bags down the stairs. By the time he reached the bottom, Sam had the quarrelsome plastic pool leaning against the edge of the bunker’s huge, map-topped table.

“Thanks,” Dean grunted out, lowering his armful of pizza boxes to the table and perching them on top of Canada.

“Salad?”

Dean held out one of the bags in Sam’s direction.

“Thank you. Now will you explain the pool thing?”

“Fine, gimme two seconds to ditch the fish.” Dean left Sam mumbling something under his breath as he strode off to the kitchen to stash Castiel’s food in the refrigerator.

By the time he returned to the war room, Sam was sitting on the far side of the table, his elbows on Central America, stabbing at his sad salad with a plastic fork.

“Alright,” Dean said, dropping heavily into the chair opposite Sam and stretching to pull a pizza box toward himself. “The plan is to slide one of the recliners in the Dean cave out of the way, so that I can fit this”—the kiddie pool wobbled perilously as Dean kicked it—"between the two of them. That way Cas can watch movies with me without using up all our towels and making me have to mop every damn day.”

It was only as Sam’s fork slowed, coming to a halt halfway between the plastic package and his confused face, that Dean realized he hadn’t actually  _ told _ Sam about his late-night TV sessions with Castiel.

From the look, he guessed that Castiel hadn’t mentioned it either.

Sam chewed and swallowed slowly, processing, before he said thoughtfully, “Wondered why we were still going through so many towels.”

“Yeah, I tried blankets, at first, but they take longer to wash and dry,” Dean noted around a lukewarm slice of meat lovers.

“So, you just…watch movies?” Sam asked, as if it was a foreign concept.

Dean shoved the second half of the pizza slice into his mouth with his thumb. “Yeah.”

“You don’t think that you’re getting a bit too invested?”

Frowning, Dean snagged a second slice from the box. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that he’s not human, Dean, and this was supposed to be the supernatural equivalent of a catch-and-release project, not  _ The Shape of Water, _ ” Sam answered dryly.

Dean slapped his pizza slice down on top of the box, his shoulders clenching defensively. “Hey! It’s not like that. Though I mean, if he had tentacles, then—”

“Oh, God, stop,” Sam whined into his salad.

Smirking, Dean folded his arms across his chest. “Cas is pretty awesome, you know,” he said. “He might not be human, but there’s more humanity in him than in plenty of people I’ve met.”

“I’m not saying he isn’t great, Dean. I’m just—” Sam’s face did that  _ thing, _ the pinchy, pulling-in-a-breath thing that it did when he was going to say something that he knew Dean wouldn’t like. “—just a bit concerned about you, that’s all. You know he has to go back to the ocean.”

The conversation was starting to skirt into areas that Dean hadn’t even reconciled with himself yet, let alone with anyone else, so he decided to focus on the last part of Sam’s words. “Yeah, he does. And we need to start working out where and how we’re gonna get him there. Magic or no magic, he doesn’t belong in a pool.”

Sam gave Dean a long, considering look before he responded, but wisely accepted the direction Dean had pushed the conversation in. “Okay. Well, where did he come from? We’ve spoken a little when I go down there to say hi in the mornings, but I get the feeling he tells you a lot more than me.”

“Maybe,” Dean said, shrugging noncommittally. “He said something about the Pacific Northwest, south of Vancouver Island.”

“Well, that’s a start. Gives us an idea what kind of environment he’s meant to be in,” Sam mused. “It’s going to be hard to find anywhere to release him where he won’t be seen, though.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully, picking his pizza back up to chew on while he considered. “Private beach of some kind, or cove, or…maybe even a river? Could he, like…swim out?”

“Not a clue, we’d have to ask him.”

For a few minutes, a thinking silence reigned. Dean had a lot of thoughts churning around his mind, most of them fairly melancholy. It was selfish of him to think that he’d miss Castiel, he knew that. But over the past few weeks, their movie nights together had become more regular. He’d grown used to seeing Cas waiting expectantly at the edge of the pool for him, that tiny smile on his face that seemed to be just for Dean. But Castiel didn’t belong here, and he deserved better than a tiled hole in the ground with no sunlight, no tide, no breeze.

Pushing aside the wave of self-centered sadness, Dean clung on to the one hope he had.

“Cas agreed, y’know—to go see Mia, like you said he should.”

Sam blinked, but his face widened into a smile almost immediately. “He did? That’s great, Dean. When’d that happen?”

“Couple nights ago. We were halfway through  _ The Two Towers _ and he just turned to me and said”—Dean dropped his voice into a rumbly imitation of Castiel’s deep rasp _ —“‘ _ I’ve had time to think about it, Dean, and I accept your proposal. If you believe Dr. Vallens can help me, then I will try speaking to her.’ Then right back to squinting at Fangorn and the Ents, like he hadn’t said a word.”

“Huh,” said Sam, looking slightly impressed. “That was faster than I thought.”

Dean locked eyes with his pizza, refusing to see Sam’s reaction as he said, “I get the feeling he’s only doing it for me. To humor me, I mean.”

“To make you happy, you mean,” Sam responded smoothly, with a smirk so loud Dean could  _ hear _ it without looking up from his plate.

Sam let Dean squirm awkwardly for a few more moments before he gave him a break. “Alright. So—back on topic, I guess. We should ask around, speak to all the hunters we know. A lot of them have remote cabins and hideouts for when things go south, so maybe they’ll know of a coastal region that’s a bit more deserted.”

“Good call,” Dean agreed with some relief, before a sudden thought struck him. “No telling anyone why, though. We gotta make something up. I didn’t pull Cas out of that brothel just to have him hunted down by some mouthy, plaid-wearing dickhead who shoots first and asks questions later.”

Sam raised both his eyebrows, his look steady and unblinking as he regarded Dean, biting his bottom lip in amusement.

“Say what you’re thinking and I’ll tell Cas to shove  _ you _ in the pool next time.”

Mockingly, Sam saluted. “Yessir. Wouldn’t dream of it. So—transportation. How are we getting Cas to the coast in the first place? Rip out Baby’s seats and install a waterproof tarp?”

“Oh, you are definitely going in the pool, Sammy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... _CRONCH_
> 
> Couldn't help myself!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed a fluffy little 'slice of life' bonding moment for our boys. We've got places to go and things to find, but these two will always be our main focus!
> 
> Coming up: Castiel is on the move, and Dean dusts off an old skill to further his friendship with his new fishy bff.
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your lovely comments on this fic! I so enjoy answering them. 
> 
> I have an important question this week, though! I have another fic that needs to start posting soon - it's a Deaf Dean mature student AU, a slow burn fic with Dean learning a lot more than Engineering from his time at school. 
> 
> Here's the question: would you prefer if the fic posted on alternate weeks to this fic (so at the same time, but never more than one update from me per week) or would you prefer if I waited until this fic was done? Honest answers, there's no right or wrong here!
> 
> Thanks, folks. Take care of yourselves!
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> P.S. Come follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MalMuses), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/mal_muses/?hl=en), or [Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/), and don't forget to [subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile) for fic updates!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, folks!
> 
> So...how are we all doing? Between the U.S. election and 15x18 airing tomorrow (no spoilers in the comments, please!) this week has been a wild one. I hope that maybe this little fic update can put a smile on your face!
> 
> This chapter ended up being much longer than I thought when I was done editing. I did a little poll on Twitter (follow me [here](https://twitter.com/MalMuses) if you'd like to take part next time!) and the overwhelming response seemed to be...split it and give you all a surprise extra chapter next week! So not only do you get mer fic and amazing art this week, but next week too! 
> 
> This week we have not one, not, two, but _three_ spectacular pieces of art from the amazing [lizleeships!](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/?hl=en) Please do go check out her social media and give her some love!
> 
> Thanks to [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) and captainhaterade for beta help, and a special thank you to [followyourenergy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/followyourenergy/pseuds/followyourenergy) for you precious, last-minute assistance! 
> 
> \- Mal <3

After decades of driving Baby, swinging her lovingly around corners and feeling her throaty roar as she accelerated, driving a decrepit van gave Dean road rage. Not that he didn’t get angry behind the wheel all the time, but really, did people have to be such assholes?

“What I wouldn’t give for a God damned backroad,” Dean grumbled to himself as he jerked to a halt on the packed freeway, yet again. Usually Dean avoided the bigger roads—all the better for dodging cameras and police officers, nevermind wall-to-wall traffic—but thanks to some unfortunate road maintenance, this was the only way he was going to get this fugly square truck safely to North Cove.

Washington was a hefty drive from Kansas even in a good car, never mind in a stolen—or _repurposed,_ as Dean had told Sam—U-Haul cargo van with a cranky merman in the back.

“Would a backroad mean less jerking?” Castiel shouted grumpily from the rear.

The van had two uncomfortable, unpadded front seats with a gap between them, and a large, empty space behind them. Theoretically, it should have been a big enough area for moving boxes or transporting stuff to colleges, apartments, and new houses across the state. Instead, Sam had helped Dean rip everything out of the back and they’d welded a high-sided rectangle of basic steel to the floor. Lined with an oversized pool liner from Walmart and carefully filled, it worked just fine for Castiel, as long as Dean was careful on the brakes.

Which he _was_ , okay, it wasn’t his fault that they’d been in stop-and-go traffic for nearly an hour.

Dean squeezed his hands tight around the steering wheel. It didn’t feel like Baby’s, and for that reason alone, he didn’t like it. “Sorry, Cas,” he said, craning his neck back over his shoulder for a moment while the traffic stood still. “If the traffic would just clear up, we’d be there in twenty minutes.”

“Then hopefully it will clear up,” Castiel said. 

Dean huffed a small smile. He could easily imagine Castiel’s spiny shoulder fins bristling up from his back. Castiel had been at the bunker for over two months while Dean searched for somewhere to take him, and Dean liked to think he’d learned a lot about merfolk—about Castiel in particular—during that time. 

They’d fallen into a strange, contented kind of routine. Each evening, Dean would cook dinner for himself and Sam, then gather up some food for Castiel, and take it down to the pool. Dean would sit with Cas while he crunched his way through handfuls of shellfish—Dean quickly got used to it and stopped shuddering when Castiel’s sharp teeth cracked through the hard shells—or whole, raw fish. They’d talk.

Mostly, they would talk about mundane things, or tell stories. As the weeks went on and Castiel opened up, though, he talked about Brock Pleasure Ranch, about Earl. Poorly equipped to deal with it and filled with righteous fury, Dean would listen silently, bite his tongue, and dig half-moons into his palms with his nails. Dean didn’t know why, or how, but it seemed like it was helping.

Sometimes, Castiel would ask Dean to swim with him. He was a little shy about it at first, which was strangely endearing, as if he thought that wanting to have his human friend in _his_ environment for a change was odd. Dean didn’t think there was much strange about it, and he ended up spending more time swimming than he ever had in his life. The swimming nights were less common than the TV nights, though. Castiel was curious about human things, fascinated with humanity in a way that, given how he’d been treated, Dean didn’t expect.

Most evenings, Dean would carry Castiel to the Dean cave once dinner was done, and they’d watch movies together and talk some more. They’d gotten by with the damp towels for a couple of weeks until Dean had made his trip to Target for the kiddie pool—though he’d only called it _that_ once in front of Castiel before he’d learned better.

The pool had a permanent spot next to Dean’s recliner, and from his watery seat, Castiel got the beginnings of a pop culture education.

They watched a lot of Netflix, they binged Star Wars, they dug into Dean’s catalog of old westerns.

Things got weird sometimes, too, or just...interesting. Once, while educating Castiel in the art of gunslinging and sexy hats, he learned, much to his horror, that Castiel was able to sleep with his eyes open. It wasn’t the strangest thing he’d learned about merfolk, but eyelid-closing being entirely optional was right up there, for sure.

Other things Dean learned were much more pleasant—that Castiel had a very dry sense of humor, once he opened up enough to show it. He was snarky. He was incredibly curious about the taste of human foods, but so far had hated everything he’d tried. He was startlingly intelligent and widely read—apparently, before Earl, he’d often snuck onto land for a visit, just so that he could read books, of all things. So of course, Dean had given him books.

He’d gotten to know Castiel’s little routines, his likes and dislikes. But more than that, he’d gotten to know him emotionally. He’d seen every stage of fin-quivering and pissy glaring during that time, including that irritated bristling he imagined Castiel doing when he was griping about the traffic. But he’d also seen small smiles, warm looks, even occasional laughter. 

On more than one occasion, he’d also seen tears, and misplaced anger, and panic attacks caused by something as basic as an unexpected loud noise, or a phrase Dean had used, or the smell of some new soap Sam had tried. 

And he’d seen how furious it made Castiel that he reacted that way. How frustrated he was to be afraid. 

It had been that which had pushed Dean to put the amulet issue aside for a few weeks and focus on getting Castiel to the coast. He needed—deserved—to be free. To be in control, to have agency. 

“Son of a bitch!” Dean hollered at the minivan in front, which was clearly being driven by a guy with no clue how big the ass-end of his giant Honda actually was. “One more go on those brakes, buddy…” 

The little box truck gave a groaning shudder that pulled Dean out of his road rage, and he flicked his eyes about, checking the road signs. Just a few more miles and they’d be there.

After a lot of asking around, it had been an old friend of Bobby’s that had put them in touch with a guy based near North Cove in Washington. The grizzled old hunter had told them about a buddy of his who’d never come back from a vampire hunt, and an isolated cabin and beach that he’d used when shit hit the fan.

Sam scouted the location with nerdy glee, returning to the bunker talking about biodiversity and all kinds of stuff that sounded great but Dean just didn’t have time for. When they’d presented the idea to Castiel, he’d immediately agreed that the area sounded perfect. After that, it was just a case of finding some way to get Castiel there. 

That was how they’d wound up climbing the fence of a U-Haul franchise outside Topeka in the middle of the night. Sam scowled the whole time, but Dean only felt a little guilty. He’d even left a mystery few hundred dollars to cover the insurance copayment he figured that the franchise owner would have to pay. And how else was he gonna get Castiel across the country?

Fitting the makeshift pool into the back of the truck had been easy with Sam’s help. As soon as they were done, Dean had carried Castiel to the bunker’s garage to get his approval. He’d _harrumphed_ at being contained in a moving truck, but Dean had seen the tiny grateful smile that lingered long after he pretended to be offended.

That night, Dean had hidden in the hallway and listened as Castiel sang, his notes, for the first time, sounding like _hope_. 

Upon hearing the crystal clear song, Dean had shoved the last of his conflicting emotions down somewhere deep, to drink away at a later date. Yes, Dean was selfish. He would have been happy to have Castiel stay at the bunker permanently.

But he wasn’t a dick. Castiel deserved to be free. And Dean knew, with a sad resignation in his chest, that he would do anything to make Castiel happy. 

Even if it meant giving up what made him happy.

Dean’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel once more and he set his jaw determinedly; this wasn’t about him.

“Almost there, Cas,” he called back into the rear of the truck, forcing himself to sound far more cheerful than he felt.

“Glad to hear it.”

Castiel was reading one of the books Dean had given him, reclined on his back in his makeshift pool with his tail flopped over the end, the book held above his head. Dean could hear the papery rustle of the pages turning. He wanted to put on some music, but a look back over his shoulder showed him the small smile on Castiel’s face as he read. His thick fingers turned the pages like they were precious, even if the book displayed several damp-looking spots—most likely the result of Dean’s jerky driving. Oops.

Dean didn’t want to disturb him. So, driving in silence it was. Or as close to silence as the rattling, rumbling van would let them have.

North Cove was an unincorporated community at the end of Cape Shoalwater, about twenty minutes south of North Bay. It was on the edge of a seashore conservation area, and pretty quiet—there were a few residential properties and vacation homes, one tiny grocery store, and that was it. Much of it had been eroding and succumbing to the ocean, rocky by rock, ever since the eighties, and the number of residents dropped year on year. The cabin was remote, on the edge of a forested area, perched above a cut-off beach on a short cliff. Steps carved right into the stone led straight down to the water.

It wasn’t luxurious, but it had been used by several hunters in its time—which meant that it, and the surrounding cliffs, were heavily warded. Dean was fairly sure that it was the safest beach in America for Castiel.

Dean pulled the shaky truck up in front of the off-white, two-story cabin. Well, at one point it had probably _been_ white, but the sea air and frequent Washington rain had done a number on the untended vacation home. Now, it was a peeling, dilapidated husk. Dean was pretty sure that anyone who somehow got lost enough to accidentally drive by the place would have thought it was abandoned, purposeless.

But no, it had a use. This was going to be where Dean said goodbye to Cas.

He felt like he should have been happy, that was the worst thing. He should have been happy for Castiel. For his freedom.

But Dean was neither that high-minded nor that selfless, so instead he was quietly, privately, miserable. Even if Castiel arranged to come back to shore occasionally to speak to Dr. Vallens somehow, how often would that be? And would he want to talk to Dean, too? It hadn’t been mentioned.

Opening the door, Dean eyed his overnight bag in the shotgun seat of the van. He’d probably drive a few hours back toward Kansas before he stopped for the night. He could, of course, have just stayed at the cabin. But he had a feeling that would just feel lonely and weird once Castiel had swum off, so he planned to stop somewhere in Idaho instead. Dean shrugged out of his jacket, baring his arms, and threw it onto the other seat with the duffle bag, leaving them there to wait for him.

“Alright, buddy,” Dean said, his voice full of forced cheer as he opened the back door of the van. “Time to be free.”

Circling gulls called overhead, crying out into the thin, cloudy, early-afternoon light. It had rained recently, and Dean’s boots left deep prints in the sandy ground between the troughs of the van’s tire tracks.

Castiel had already hauled himself out of his makeshift tub in anticipation, and he was sitting right inside the door, upright, his tail curled around him to the left. In his hand, still, was his slightly damp copy of _Wild Trail: A Gay Cowboy Romance._ Dean would have made fun of him for reading Harlequin trash, but given that it probably came from Dean’s own collection of battered paperbacks he didn’t really have a leg to stand on.

As the doors swung and the fresh breeze swirled into the van, Castiel lifted his chin and inhaled, long and deep. With his eyes closed, the wind tousled his hair a little (it was mostly dry—Dean had noticed that his hair seemed to dry crazily fast, unlike human hair) and a beautiful, amazed smile spread across his face.

Dean watched, smiling, too.

Castiel’s brilliant blue irises came back into view, wide and clear. “It smells like the sea,” he half-whispered, like he was mesmerized.

“Sure does,” Dean said, plastering on a grin. “Do you wanna go straight down there?”

Castiel nodded enthusiastically, dropping the book and raising his arms. “Please,” he said.

Dean tried to shove the _selfish,_ uncomfortable thought of, _“Great, he’s just so eager to get away from me”_ down somewhere abyssal-deep, so that he’d never have to admit to having contemplated something so greedy.

This was about _Castiel._ About giving him what he deserved. Dean’s stupid “feelings” that kept rearing up could go fuck themselves.

“This might take a few minutes,” Dean said, screwing his grin back on firmly. “All those rippling muscles of yours ain’t exactly light.”

Castiel tilted his head as Dean lifted him from the back of the van, giving him that intense squint that always made Dean feel like he was being stripped down to his soul. “I would have thought that you would like my muscles. Aren’t they considered conventionally attractive?”

Dean almost dropped Castiel at that, but managed to steady himself. As he walked across the bare earth frontage of the cabin toward the gated steps that headed down to the isolated beach, Dean huffed out a low chuckle. “You’re a menace.”

Castiel looked a little bit pleased with himself for a moment—then it passed, and a small crease appeared between his brows. Dean made the executive decision not to ask what that was about, and to continue getting them safely down the rocky cliffside.

The steps were wet and the further down them Dean went the more slippery they became. Each footfall was a battle for balance against a layer of green algae and the occasional lichen or small limpet. The tide rose high here, and the stairs clearly hadn’t been cared for in a long time, likely as long as the cabin itself had been abandoned. The smell of salt and seaweed grew stronger as they descended, and once they’d rounded the curve at the bottom—Dean’s back protesting loudly, by then—the sound of _shushing_ low-tide waves greeted them.

Whatever had caused Castiel’s frown got swept out with the first wave they saw, his face slackening with emotion in a way that Dean felt was almost intrusive to witness.

Pausing for a second to lean his hip against the ragged rock wall and catch his breath, Dean took in the length of the short beach. It was seaweed-filled, the sand dark, the rocks a deep gray, but the sea itself looked beautifully blue, sand visible beneath the crests for a long way out. It was wild and pretty looking, not like a Caribbean sea or something from a travel website, but in a way that felt real and ancient and breathtaking.

Castiel looked, too, his lips slightly parted.

“Excited?” Dean asked quietly.

Even as he gave a mute nod, Castiel’s gaze remained fixed on the low, curling, seahorse waves.

Dean huffed and flexed, pulling Castiel’s warm form against his chest once more as he made it down the last couple of steps to the sand. It was gritty and pebble filled, but it still shifted beneath Dean’s boots and made carrying Castiel all the harder.

“I can pull myself across the beach—” Castiel began quietly.

“Nah,” Dean said, shaking his head as his hands were too occupied to wave dismissively. “It’s fine, Cas, I’ve got you.”

Castiel seemed to get heavier with every step toward the foaming swash zone, where the waves caressed the shore. No…it was something inside Dean getting heavier.

Water lapping around his boots, sinking deeply with every step, Dean drew to a halt in the mild, teasing surf. Bracing his back, he crouched to lower Castiel to the sand.

For a long moment, Castiel’s arms remained twined around Dean’s neck.

His thighs burning from the odd crouched position he was in, Dean decided he didn’t care about getting his clothes wet and thumped down to sit on the shifting sand. The inch or two of water that lapped around him each time a wave came in was chilly on the first shock, but then didn’t seem that bad at all.

Castiel sat with his tail out in front of him, his hands either side of himself once he finally let go of Dean, fingers splayed in the sand. His sharp, talon-like nails curled into the ground, burying into the grains.

Dean looked up, about to ask Castiel what he was waiting for. The words left him at the sight of the silent tears raining unchecked down Castiel’s cheeks as he stared out past the break point of the waves, across the ocean beyond.

Immediately, Dean’s hands reached out of their own accord—but he pulled himself to a stop, only inches from gently gripping Castiel’s arm. He _wanted_ to touch Castiel, to comfort him. But Dean had avoided any contact—beyond transporting him—that Castiel had not initiated himself. Castiel had suffered too many unwelcome touches and felt too many unwanted hands. He’d been talking to Dr. Vallens, he’d been “processing”, as he’d told Dean—but Dean never wanted to push, never wanted to risk any kind of negative reaction.

Thoughts swirling rapidly, Dean didn’t know what he should do, what Castiel would be okay with.

Dean wanted to hug him, though. Clearly this was overwhelming for him.

“Can I hug you?” Dean asked after another awkward second, his arm hovering around Castiel’s shoulders.

Castiel didn’t answer, just leaned in, his temple against Dean’s collarbone as his eyes remained fixed on the sea. When Dean’s hands still hung in the air, floating an inch above Castiel’s skin, Castiel reached up and twined his fingers with Dean’s own, pulling his arm around him firmly.

“It’s okay,” Castiel whispered, just like he knew all of Dean’s thoughts.

Dean stifled a sad smile at the incongruousness of Castiel, the one of them shedding tears, telling _him_ that it was okay.

They stayed like that for several minutes, surrounded by salty air, being lightly sprayed by the rocking of the wave tips around them, before Dean cleared his throat.

“Why are you sad?” Dean asked, hoping the crack in his own voice could be put down to the silence they’d been sharing, not the emotions he was trying to ignore. “Is there something wrong with this place? You’re free, you can—you can swim wherever you want now, Cas. Find a home, family. I thought you’d be happy.”

“I am,” Castiel said, chuckling wetly, one hand leaving Dean’s arm to dash away his tears. “I am happy. Overwhelmed, but happy. It’s been so long since I could even remember the feel of waves, Dean. So long.”

“Happy tears,” Dean checked.

Castiel nodded, then pulled back a fraction, fixing Dean with his thousand-league, oceanic eyes. “Yes. Happy tears—thanks to you. Thank you, Dean. For everything.”

Dean ducked his eyes away, reaching to scratch at the short hair along the nape of his neck. “Ain’t nothin’, Cas. Just what you deserve.”

“Not nothing, everything,” Castiel murmured, in a voice that brooked no argument despite its softness.

Dean studied the patterns the running sand made around his legs and Castiel’s tail where it was curled into Dean’s thighs.

Castiel’s hand moved up, damp against Dean’s cheek as he ducked down, searching for his eyes. “Dean, why are _you_ sad?”

“I, uh—” Dean cleared his throat desperately, turning away from Castiel’s palm toward the cliff, as if looking at the face of it would give him the same timeless strength that it displayed against the tide. It didn’t. With a small sigh, Dean looked back at Castiel, focusing his attention on the slightly risen spines of his shoulder fins. His voice came out in a whisper as he said, “I’m just gonna miss you, man.”

The hug that they fell back into was tight and desperate and strange; Castiel was rubbing Dean’s back as if he needed to be comforted, but that was _wrong,_ all wrong, but he was also chuckling softly in a way that kinda broke every fragile hope that had been constructing a home in Dean’s heart.

“Dean,” Castiel said very softly, as if he knew how shaky that straw house of hope was. “Do you think I’m leaving you?”

“Not—I mean, not _me,_ ” Dean mumbled roughly, pulling back and folding his arms defensively across his chest, holding the emotion in tight. “This is your home and I get that, you’re not leaving specifically, you’re—”

“You’re an idiot,” Castiel said, so softly that it sounded like an endearment. “Dean, you’re so stupid.”

Dean blinked. “Wow, uncalled for—”

But Castiel was _laughing_ again, a gentle chuckle that made his shoulder fins shudder.

“Dean, I told you my family shunned me. Where exactly do you think I’m going? Why would I do anything other than stay here, in the cove, where you can visit me anytime that you want? And I still need to speak to Dr. Vallens, remember—she’s helping me a lot. I’m not leaving you, Dean. I’m not leaving at all.”

Dean’s heart gave a solid _thump_ that seemed so loud he wondered if Castiel heard it. “You’re going to stay—stay here,” he repeated dumbly. “You actually want me to visit you?”

Castiel’s chuckles had dissolved, and his eyes finally dropped, less sure. “Of course. If…if you want to, that is. You are not obligated. But I thought we were at least…at least friends.”

_At least friends._

“Of course I want to. You’re—you’re my best friend,” Dean said, even if the words felt somehow wrong. “The whole point of getting you your freedom back is so that _you_ can decide where you want to be.”

Castiel’s fingers danced across a phantom object at his throat as he said, “Well, my choices are still more limited than I wish they were. But the freedom of the ocean is something I never thought I’d have again.”

The only thing stronger than Dean’s melancholy was his stubborn streak. He wouldn’t say it to Castiel, he wouldn’t upset him further or have him hope, just in case—but somehow, someday, Dean was going to work out how to get him his amulet back, or he’d find something to replace it. No matter what. He kept his thoughts to himself, though.

“So, why aren’t you testing out that freedom right now?” Dean said instead, giving Castiel the gentlest of pushes toward deeper water. “The waves await, Ariel.”

Castiel spared one heavy, glaring squint at the reference before he pushed away, rolling onto his front. With only a few wiggles of his tail and pulls of his arms, he was in the swell of the next wave, leaving the sand behind. He darted out into the ocean at full speed then, clearing the shore and emerging in the calm water of the distance moments later.

“Will you stay a while?” he shouted, turning back to the beach.

“’Course,” Dean called back, so fucking happy to be asked. He nodded and waved, gesturing to Castiel to swim, to do his thing.

At Dean’s urging, Castiel turned and flipped, arcing out of the water and curving back into it, hands first, his tail flipping up a gigantic spray of water that formed a misty rainbow of diamond-glittering droplets for a moment in the low sun, right in the middle of the bay.

Dean remained amongst the surf in his soggy jeans, leaning back on his hands in the sand, and listened to Castiel sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, these two! A shorter chapter because of the split, but that does mean more words and more art next week, too! Didn't Liz do an amazing job with the art? I feel like you can really sense how overwhelmed Cas is, but it's so soft...I adore it. 
> 
> Next week: Your fluff prescription is being filled, friends, before we get back to plottier things!
> 
> Thank you for all the feedback about my next fic, the Deaf Dean mature student AU. The majority of you seem to want me to post it after this fic is done, so that's what I will do! I can't wait to share it with you all. 
> 
> No matter how this week turns out...fic, fandom, and friends are all here for you. Remember that, folks <3
> 
> \- Mal


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everybody!
> 
> WOW. What a week we've had since I last posted! Talk about ups and downs, huh. I hope you're all feeling okay, or as best as you can. I mentioned that I had to chop last week's fluff chapter into two, so today I'm bringing you the second half - a dose of pure fluff, which this week, seems like a good, soothing idea. 
> 
> We'll be back to normal posting from here, and while I apologize for the adjustment in posting schedule for this week, I can't regret bringing you some low-angst cuteness after 15x18. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, to captainhaterade and EllenOfOz...and of course, to [lizleeships](https://twitter.com/lizleeships). The art that she produced for this week's chapter is so, so beautiful...I don't know about y'all, but I kinda want to get a print of it to put in my bathroom, lol. Do you think my family would mind if we had a mer-destiel themed bathroom? xD
> 
> Enjoy, folks - and remember to breathe.
> 
> \- Mal <3

Dean flipped Baby’s sun visor down, shielding his face from the bright glare. As the months had rolled on into a blistering hot summer, his bi-weekly drives up to North Cove grew less and less comfortable. But, with the Impala’s windows down and his music up, Dean didn’t care that much. If the drive had been just a little shorter, he’d have made it every week. At nearly twenty-six hours of solid road time, though, he had to draw a line somewhere. Even Dean Winchester needed to get out of his car occasionally.

“It’s too damn hot to breathe,” he grumbled into his phone as he pulled off the main highway.

“It’s cooler up there in Washington than it is down here,” Sam grumbled right back. “Why I came to work on a case in Texas in the middle of a heatwave, I haven’t got a clue.”

Dean chuckled. “You could shave your head, you’d be cooler.”

“Funny,” Sam said dryly. “You almost there?”

“Yup, should be arriving at the cabin in about ten minutes, traffic was good so I’m gonna be a little earlier than usual.”

“Think Cas is gonna like your surprise?”

Peering over his shoulder briefly into the back seat where he had everything laid out, Dean grinned as he said, “I’m hopeful. Either he’ll love it or think it’s stupid.”

“Sounds about right, and I’m sure he won’t hesitate to bluntly tell you, either way,” Sam replied with a fond chuckle.

Dean was delighted that Sam and Castiel seemed to be getting along so well. Initially, Castiel had seemed to favor Dean, his rescuer, but over the time he’d been in the bunker he’d slowly opened up to Sam, too. They were friends now, for sure—Sam had even driven up to North Cove with Dean a few times to hang out, relaxing with a few beers on the beach and reading his dull research tomes on the sand.

But most visits, Dean went by himself. He and Castiel had a standing routine now. Every other weekend Dean would leave Kansas before dawn on Friday, drive all day, then get his four hours in a motel at the Idaho border. The next morning he’d push on, arriving at the cabin before lunch, then he’d stay until Sunday.

Secretly, it was all Dean looked forward to. When he was in Nebraska showering off the slimy gore of rugaru guts, or digging graves deep in Missouri, or sorting out the endless hauntings they seemed to have in Maine, a part of him was always in North Cove.

A part of him was always in the cabin, or on the beach.

And every time he pulled Baby up in front of the cabin and jumped out, making his way straight down the slippery steps to the beach—his bags always got left in the car until later—that part of him materialized out of the waves with a tiny smile, as if he could somehow sense Dean’s approach.

“I think Cas is gonna like it,” Dean said again, more firmly. “Hope so, anyway.”

“I’m pretty sure he will, too,” Sam agreed. “Hey—I’ve still been looking into that amulet stuff for you, between cases, but there’s just so little to go on. Do you think you could try and ask him for more details about when Earl first—”

“Nope,” Dean cut in. “If he talks about that, it’s in his own time, and that’s it.”

“Right, right,” Sam said quickly. “Of course, yeah. I’m just—well, we’re running out of places to look.”

Dean huffed out a breath, releasing Baby’s wheel for a moment to run his hand over his face. “Yeah. I get it. Well, maybe we should be asking around underground, y’know, do your online thing and infiltrate a few places, like how you found Cas in the first place. Maybe we can find another mer to ask about the amulet lore.”

“Not a bad idea, given that we have no ideas. Trying to find another one of his kind might be best. As soon as I get back to the bunker, I’ll get on it.”

“Thanks, Sammy.” Dean didn’t have to explain how much it meant to him that Sam was willing to help him, to help Castiel. He was sure Sam knew; his brother knew him better than he knew himself, most of the time. There was a lot going on under all that hair.

“Yeah, no problem. Okay, well, I need to head out to our suspected werewolf’s house.”

“Be safe,” Dean cautioned, of course, because he always had to. “Check in.”

“Yeah, ‘course. Have fun with your merman.”

“He’s not  _ my _ merman,” Dean protested, his fingers tightening around Baby’s wheel.

“Sure, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t fire back because Sam hung up. Bitch.

He was only a couple of miles from the cabin by then, the highway left far behind. Soon enough, he felt the familiar lurch as Baby rolled off tarmac and onto the dirt sideroad that led through the forest of towering sitka spruce to the beach. Her tires spun sandy dirt and gravel off to the sides in a noisy, familiar scatter as he progressed down the tree-lined path.

Something in Dean’s chest lifted as the grubby, wannabe-white building came into view, his shoulders lightened, and he felt himself smiling.

Dean made a point to remind himself that he was a ridiculous, sappy fucking idiot before he pulled the parking brake.

For once, Dean stopped to unload Baby before he went down to the beach. There was no way that he could easily hide his surprise from Castiel now that he was here, so he at least wanted to get everything prepped and ready. Opening the back door, Dean pulled out a huge, heavy, waterproof duffle bag. Sliding it carefully to the floor, he unzipped it to check on all the gear within and get it connected up and ready to go; it looked like a tangle of pipes, nylon, and plastic. Satisfied, he reached down into Baby’s back footwell and pulled out the final piece: a slim, steel tank filled with eighty cubic feet of compressed air.

Dean was going to spend some time in Castiel’s realm, this visit.

Eager to get on with it, Dean hefted the tank onto his shoulder and lifted the duffle with his other hand. He’d have to take the steps slowly, but he was, at least, fairly evenly weighted.

The Pacific Northwest being what it was, the water off this little beach in North Cove was usually a bit chilly. So, as soon as Dean got down onto the beach and came to a halt a few yards back from the wave line, he dumped the duffle down and unzipped it again, pulling out a short wetsuit. It was summer, but even so, Dean didn’t much like the idea of being so cold his body wanted to take his balls back, thank you very much.

“Hey, Cas!” Dean called as he scanned the white-tipped waves, spotting a telltale dark shape under the water. He turned his attention back to emptying out the bag and setting up his scuba tank and jacket.

Castiel moved out of the waves, the soft sound of his scales  _ shush _ -ing against the sand as he pulled himself swiftly up the beach barely registering. He flopped down next to Dean and rolled onto his back, pushing himself up on his elbows with a welcoming smile as he said, “Hello, Dean. You’re a little early, today.”

“Well, I was in a hurry,” Dean said, grinning as he straightened up. Looking down at Cas, he reached down and tugged his t-shirt up over his head.

Castiel’s head titled in question. His eyes flicked down to Dean’s stomach as it was exposed, before leisurely wandering their way back up to his face. “A hurry? What for?”

“To see you, dumbass.” Dean tried for a teasing tone, but the statement was as true as the day is long, and he thought—hoped—that they both knew that by now.

The tiniest flush at his cheeks, Castiel’s eyes dropped to his lap—but snapped back up as Dean’s hands popped the button of his jeans.

As Dean lowered his zipper and pushed the denim down over his butt, he could  _ feel _ Castiel’s eyes on him and somehow it was both unnerving and exciting. He’d put on a pair of tight diving shorts under his jeans that morning instead of boxers; not what he’d usually wear in the water, but loose board shorts would bunch up and get annoying fast under a wetsuit, and he wasn’t sure he was up for the possible chafing involved with freeballing under neoprene.

“Dean? What are you doing?” Castiel asked, his voice a little strange. “Did you want to swim already?”

It was a valid question, as usually they would spend time in the little cabin watching Netflix, listening to music, and introducing Castiel to new Doritos flavors for much of their Saturdays. (He had yet to find one that didn’t make his face scrunch up, but Cool Ranch was the best of the lot, so far.) Swimming happened, but Dean usually liked to rest a bit from the long drive, first.

Today, though, Dean was pumped up and ready to go.

Dean pointed to the prepared tank, jacket, and hoses on the ground next to his near-empty duffle. “Surprise,” he said quietly.

For the first time, Castiel turned his head to really take in what Dean had brought down to the beach with him. When his head lifted back to Dean above him, he was wide-eyed, a disbelieving smile stretched across his face as if he wasn’t  _ quite _ sure that it meant what he wanted it to mean.

“I didn’t know you could—and you want to—” Castiel tried, failing to get his words off the ground.

“You’d be surprised what skills hunters pick up over time,” Dean said, chatting confidently to cover his own nerves. “Took me a while to think of it, though. Then I had to get all the stuff and practice a bit in the pool back at the bunker—it’s been years.”

“Oh,” Castiel said as Dean hopped on one foot, tugging off his jeans, and began to wiggle into the wetsuit.

“And of course I want to,” Dean continued, shoving his arms in and pulling the simple black suit up over his chest. He paused once his shoulders were covered, frowning down at Castiel nervously. “Unless that’s—I mean, if you don’t want me to intrude into that part of your world, then that’s, uh, okay.”

_ Okay? No. Heartbreaking.  _ But Dean was a big boy and he’d get over it.

Castiel’s smile widened, showing flashes of his gums as he sat up straighter. “Want you to? Dean, I—” He shook his head, his smile softer. “I would love that.”

“Okay, great,” Dean said, letting his relief out in a long huff of air. He dropped to his knees then, turning so his back was to Castiel as he said, “In that case, do me up?”

There was a moment’s hesitation before Castiel’s fingers carefully pulled the fabric together across Dean’s back and slowly worked the zipper upwards. Dean was well aware that Castiel’s fingers were effectively talons in this form—he could slice through flesh with ease, should he want to. But, somewhere along the line he had come to wholly and completely trust Castiel, like he trusted no one but Sam. With everything, including his own life.

Castiel’s fingers ghosted across the back of Dean’s neck as he said, so quietly Dean barely heard it, “I don’t understand why you’re so kind to me. Why you—why you do any of this.”

“Good things do happen, Cas,” Dean murmured back, glad that the emotion in his face was hidden, because even as much of a disaster at  _ feelings _ as he was, Dean could only conceal so much. “And you deserve all of the good things, okay? You deserve—”

“I don’t think so,” Castiel interrupted.

“Well, I do.” Dean looked back over his shoulder, catching the gentle heat in Castiel’s cheeks—he felt a bit proud to have put it there, really.

Pushing up off the sand, Dean reached down to grab the last few items from the duffle bag that he’d brought down to the beach, before bending down to slip one arm into his equipment. It was all quality gear, and it’d put no small dent in Steve Walsh’s credit card. There had been a tank hanging around at the bunker, but Dean had picked up a new jacket-like buoyancy control device—or BCD—to replace the too-small one that was with it. The wetsuit and accessories, the hoses, and the mouthpiece (or regulator, as he now knew it was called) had slowly been gathered online while he was buffing up his skills to somewhere beyond “can grab a body from a pond if we need to” level.

Hefting the BCD up to his shoulder, tank and all, Dean poked his other arm through the hole and tightened the straps before grabbing his fins and mask. “Ready to go, Cas?”

Castiel was still sitting in the sand, pushed up on one arm, watching Dean with wide eyes. He was smiling broadly again, though, as he took in all the equipment.

“Must look funny to you, huh?” Dean asked. “Having to wear all this just to go for a bit deeper of a paddle.”

“I’ll admit, it’s strange-looking,” Castiel confessed, before giving Dean a heavy look up and down. “The wetsuit, especially. You usually have so many layers—nothing much is hidden in that, though.”

Dean had never felt so exposed while covered from knee to elbow.

Not seeming to realize that Dean was having a strange, out-of-the-blue crisis about how his stomach looked in tight, black rubber, Castiel flicked his tail and began a swift shimmy down the beach. The waves came up to meet him and he splashed his way straight in, disappearing for a moment before coming back up to wave Dean in after him.

Dean stepped up to the waterline, bent over to slip his fins on, adjusted his mask down over his eyes, and then waddled a little further.

Castiel waited, looking almost impatient, until the water reached Dean’s waist. Then he did a little spin, causing tiny, excitable waves to crash around Dean, and came right up to Dean’s front, only inches away. He held himself high in the water, almost of a height with Dean.

“Do you trust me?” Castiel asked, his tiny head tilt made slightly unusual by the impish edge to his smile.

Did he? Dean was totally out of his element, and he was about to be totally in Castiel’s. Even so, it barely felt like a question.

“Completely,” Dean said, far more solemnly than he’d meant to.

It seemed to please Castiel, though, a soft expression fluttering across his face before the mischievousness came immediately back. Reaching behind Dean, Castiel retrieved his regulator, pulling the hose over Dean’s shoulder and even popping it into Dean’s mouth for him. Standing as he was, head above water, Dean’s breath sounded loud, mechanical, and raspy through the plastic in his mouth.

Like Darth Vader, he always thought. It was kinda cool.

A pair of large, strong hands at his hips were all Dean had time to register before he was lifted clear off his feet, and the water came up to envelop him at a startling pace.

Dean gasped out loud—or as loud as a burst of surprised bubbles from his regulator could be. The water wasn’t as chill as Dean was used to, having been warmed by the summer sun all morning. If he’d been paddling in the shallows, Dean would have been fine without a wetsuit at all, for a short while. But staying close to the beach had never been his plan; he wanted to see Castiel’s world.

Even with the warmer water, though, being dunked in suddenly made Dean bite down on the piece of rubber between his teeth, going wide-eyed behind his mask as his wetsuit got fully submerged in the cool ocean.

With a fast shuffle and a spin that seemed like nothing but a wall of white foam to Dean, Castiel had Dean in his arms. With one tucked under Dean’s knees and one behind his shoulders, it was reminiscent of the many times that Dean had carried Castiel around, just like this. Their situations were wholly reversed now—this was where Castiel thrived, where he was meant to be.

Dean was the awkward, clunky outsider, now.

Castiel let the water settle around them for a moment in the shallows, so Dean could get his bearings. They were just behind the waves, the water only a couple of feet above Dean’s head, had he been standing. The floor around them was sandy, only interrupted by the occasional strand of brown bull kelp or a floating, dislodged stem of bright sea lettuce. There was no life to be seen beyond a few telltale blowholes in the sand; no doubt his and Castiel’s entrance had scared away anything else nearby.

Dean was surprised how clear the water was, though, even if everything around him was tinted a surprisingly vivid green. The seashore conservation area just up the coast probably had something to do with the lack of mud and trash and general debris, he reasoned. Whatever caused the emerald tint must be natural, Dean decided—he wished he could ask Castiel, but unlike Cas, his communication options were fairly limited.

Even knowing that Castiel had gills, it was still a bit odd to see him underwater, breathing, smiling eagerly, eyes alight, and realize that he was just fine. It was even stranger when he opened his mouth and  _ spoke. _

His voice was muted and odd in the water, bouncing and carrying strangely as all sounds tended to in the sea. Close as they were, Dean’s face only inches from Castiel’s as he was held in his arms, Dean could make out his words without too much trouble.

“Is this okay?” Castiel checked. “You’re comfortable, everything is working?”

Dean sucked in a few slow, calm breaths, letting out a gentle stream of bubbles. Satisfied, he nodded.

Castiel’s hands tightened around Dean’s body, pulling him in close to his chest— _ the strength of ten men _ , Dean suddenly recalled—and they were off; Dean could feel the power in Castiel’s body as his tail flicked, sending them rocketing through the water at a startling speed. Wild dervishes of foamy bubbles spun out from their path, and Dean could barely see past them to get his bearings. His normally good sense of direction seemed useless beneath the waves. All he could tell was that the beach had been there, and now it…wasn’t.

Dean clung onto Castiel shamelessly. It was overwhelming, the speed at which Castiel moved them, but it was also  _ hot as fuck. _

Castiel in his own realm was like lightning in a bottle; humming with power that felt barely contained, the way he lifted and tossed Dean around like he weighed nothing at all was impressive. Castiel was an apex predator, and with the water rushing around them, Dean had never been more aware of the fact.

It was difficult for Dean to get much of an impression of where they were going. The water bubbled as it parted around them, making it difficult to see. Occasionally there was a sense of turning, Castiel’s muscles rearranging, his chest angling a certain way. Wondering where Castiel was taking them, Dean tightened his grip around Castiel’s neck with the arm pinned closest to his chest so that he could grope around at his side for the little console of information dials that were attached to his tank.

Nearing twenty feet down and heading north. It was good information to have, but it didn’t help Dean very much. He wasn’t worried about going too deep; he could tell that Castiel was near the seabed by the occasional tornados of sand that kicked up when he changed direction. After only another minute, though, he felt Castiel draw to a stop.

“I thought this might be a nice place to show you,” Castiel’s voice rumbled strangely through the water, sounding like it came from somewhere else entirely, to Dean’s ears.

Dean lifted his head from where he had curled against Castiel. He tried to smile, but realized that with his regulator in his mouth, Castiel probably couldn’t tell. Castiel held onto Dean’s shoulder firmly, like an iron anchor, while he fiddled with his equipment and sorted out his buoyancy, so that he wouldn’t bounce back to the surface the moment Castiel let him go.

Satisfied, Dean gave Castiel a firm nod when he was done, and very slowly—as if he, too, was scared Dean would rocket back up to the sky—Castiel backed up a couple of feet. When Dean stayed in place, floating contentedly, he sought out his eyes with an excited, gummy smile.

They floated like that for a moment, just looking at each other, then Castiel reached across and carefully turned Dean around.

They were at the edge of an enormous kelp forest. Stretching out in front of Dean’s eyes were hundreds, maybe thousands, of thick ropes of green-brown algae, towering overhead like jungle plants in an undiscovered rainforest.

To Dean, everything seemed quiet; all he could hear was the hush of water in his ears and the bubbly rasp of his breathing. But as his eyes began to take in more and more of the forest, he realized that it was teeming with life—groups of silvery gray rockfish scuttered slowly around near the base of the kelp, always watching and lurking, waiting for their smaller prey.

Dean wracked his brain, trying to remember the research that he and Sam had done on this area while discussing bringing Cas here—he knew the orange, solitary fish that hovered a few feet above the floor were called Garibaldi, but he hadn’t realized they’d be so  _ bright  _ considering the depth _. _ Even as shallow as they were in the scheme of things, certain colors were becoming muted and washed out looking; the vivid red needle on Dean’s depth gauge was a burnt orange, and some of the spiny sea urchins that gathered around the kelp bases in clumps looked almost brown, though Dean knew if he was to shine a light on them, they’d be an intense red.

The ground was rocky, split here and there by patches of sand, and the forest seemed to stretch on for miles ahead.

Castiel came up to Dean’s side, moving through the water with the barest twitch of his tail. He didn’t make a sound, sleek and silent. Now that he was swimming more slowly, the water around Castiel seemed to part and let him through without even a bubble. In darker waters, Dean realized, he’d be all but invisible.

A deadly predator, indeed.

For an apex killer, though, Castiel had a very shy smile as he reached out to hold Dean’s hand.

Dean was suddenly very glad for the equipment covering half of his face; if he was lucky, it was covering the pathetic blush that he could feel heating his skin at something as innocent as a little hand-holding.

Castiel swam a foot or so ahead, tugging gently on Dean’s hand.

Okay. So, he wanted to lead Dean along, show him the way. Cool, cool. Dean could do that.

Swimming through the forest was both magical and eerie; the canopy of algae above filtered the light, making the water seem even more green than it did closer to the beach. Every few feet, Castiel seemed to find something new for them to look at.

He pulled Dean gently around a rock, only to find the other side of it teeming with large, brown crabs that had to weigh at least a couple of pounds each.

“Dungeness Crabs,” Castiel told him, picking one up for Dean to see more closely. He didn’t reach out to touch, though—Castiel’s fingers might have been talon-like, but Dean felt distinctly fleshy by comparison. The crab squirmed and snapped, so Castiel placed it back on the rock with its compatriots, saying, “They’re quite tasty—I believe humans cook them sometimes, too. I already ate, though.”

Dean found himself slightly relieved at that. Watching Castiel eat was one thing, watching him hunt, lethal marauder that he was, would either make Dean feel inferior or give him an awkward boner, and he really wasn’t sure which was worse—there wasn’t a lot of space in his wetsuit.

Another minute of swimming had Castiel introducing Dean to a large Pacific Red Octopus. It didn’t seem threatened by Castiel, more annoyed by Dean, flapping one sucker-covered arm toward his fins.

“We don’t eat them, they don’t eat us,” Castiel explained. “So, he doesn’t care either way about me. You, though…you’re strange and new. Watch out for his beak.”

_ Beak? _ Dean gave a firm nod and stayed closed to Castiel’s side. Castiel seemed amused, but was kind enough not to say anything.

“Look!” Castiel said only moments later, delighting Dean with a gaggle of brown, fuzzy mammals, darting around in amongst the rope-like strands of kelp. “Pacific Sea Otters. They’re usually a little deeper than this, but there have been some orcas hunting further off the coast this last week. I don’t blame them for staying away.”

Dean nodded vaguely. The otters were frolicing playfully up ahead, darting in and out of the kelp like they were playing chasing games. Floating together, Dean and Castiel watched them for a few minutes. Dean wasn’t the fuzzy, lovey, animal-documentary type, really—National Geographic was more Sam’s schtick—but regardless, he found himself hoping that they stayed in the cove, safe from the orcas. 

He wanted to ask Castiel if  _ he _ should worry about the orcas, but Castiel merely pulled them along again, already excited to show Dean the next thing.

The next thing turned out to be, honestly, kinda ugly. Dean’s huff off surprise and half-hidden expression must have given him away, as Castiel laughed after he directed Dean to look under a sharp rock outcrop. A lumpy grey face full of teeth peered back at Dean, snapping defensively. Luckily the thing was only as long as his arm, so he could probably fight it off, but even so—it wasn’t exactly endearing itself too well.

“It’s a wolf eel,” Castiel said, his voice close to Dean’s ear. Even with the strange, unsettling bounce of Castiel’s voice in the water, Dean still got the impression that Castiel was whispering. “They aren’t the most beautiful creatures, but they are special.”

The wolf eel bared its wonky, jagged teeth and glared.

Dean tilted his head to the side, hoping to telegraph his question to Castiel in watery silence.

“Wait just a moment,” Castiel said, settling them down on the bottom a few feet away. “They’re curious things, we’ll see soon enough.”

Sure enough, once they’d patiently waited for a few minutes, a second grey face popped up beside the first. It was a little smaller, but just as lumpy. They both eyed Dean and Castiel distrustfully for a moment, then grabbed a spiny red sea urchin each and retreated back into their hole, together.

“They mate for life,” Castiel said. “Not so many fish do that, being egg layers…but a lot of us other sea creatures do. Some seahorses, some shrimp, sea turtles.”

_ A lot of us? _ Dean wondered, gesturing toward Castiel questioningly.

Castiel’s eyes followed Dean’s pointing finger to his own chest. The awkwardness of the way he shyly nodded was wholly endearing. “Yes,” he confirmed. “Merfolk, too.”

_ Oh. Well. _

They stared at each other for a long moment among the gently swishing kelp, until Castiel tilted his head to one side, indicating that they should move on. Dean only let him go a few feet ahead before he kicked to catch up, pushing against the water with his plastic fins to get back to Castiel’s side.

He slipped his hand back into Castiel’s and gave his fingers a squeeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> As always, to be alerted about new chapters, please [subscribe here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile), or follow me on social media: [Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MalMuses), or [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/mal_muses/?hl=en).
> 
> With the renumbering of the chapters, we're now halfway through! There's plotty things and soft things all coming your way (and, as the tags say, some skippable smut - so take that or leave it as you will) and I'm grateful for all of you coming along on the ride. 
> 
> Next time: A little hurt/comfort, Dean talks about his feelings (but not to Cas), and someone...makes a move. 
> 
> Take care of yourselves, and each other, folks. 
> 
> \- Mal <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers!
> 
> I'm back with another chapter for you! Those of you who follow me on social media (links in the end note, if you don't but would like to) will already know that I had to take a bit of an unscheduled fandom break for a couple of weeks. Real life has a habit of hitting folks in the face during 2020, and with that on top of the show ending, I just needed a little time to breathe and regroup. While things aren't perfect yet, I missed my happy places - writing and fandom. So, here I am...you're stuck with me again ;)
> 
> The amazing [lizleeships](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/?hl=en) made me squeal with excitement when I saw this week's art! I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Please do head over to her social media to give it some love!
> 
> Thanks as always to Liz, EllenOfOz, captainhaterade, and all of the trashcan girls...for just being there, these last few weeks. Thank you, from the bottom of my squishy little heart.
> 
> Is that enough sappiness and mush? I hope not, because you've got a chapter to get through...
> 
> \- Mal <3

It was early fall when Dean got shot. 

Sam told him to quit being so dramatic, that the bullet barely grazed him—but as Sam was the one holding the gun, Dean wasn’t about to let him forget it. He didn’t blame Sam in the slightest; he’d been thrown against a wall with his finger on the trigger, what else was going to happen? But Dean certainly knew how to milk things, on occasion. With the occasional reminder about his gun-happy finger, Sam hadn’t complained about Dean's diet all week. In fact, he’d been out to fetch him bacon double-cheeseburgers twice, without so much as a complaint.

After making the drive up to North Cove, though, Dean had to admit that his shot-up bicep was kinda sore. The wound was starting to heal; he wasn’t too concerned about it, but it was in an awkward place that he kept catching on his clothes, tearing at the scabs. He’d promised Sam that he’d take it easy if he came up to Washington, no frolicking in the waves, hunting crabs with Castiel, or diving down to see the ever-changing beauties of Castiel’s home. Dean wasn’t going to miss the trip, though. For one thing, it wasn’t like he could easily call Castiel to let him know he wasn’t coming, the dude lived underwater. 

And anyway, what Sam didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Dean wasn’t about to worry Castiel by not turning up at their appointed time, so come Hell, high water, or gunshot wound, he was making the drive. Hopefully, Castiel wouldn’t be too disappointed that Dean couldn’t join him in the water quite as much, this week.

Shifting his phone to his other ear as he drove, Dean relayed the story to Dr. Mia Vallens.

“So yeah, a long road trip probably wasn’t the best idea, but I couldn’t let Cas down, y’know?”

“Because you believe that Castiel has been let down too much by humanity,” Mia said, quoting something they’d already been over a few times. “I know I’ve asked you this before, Dean, but have you considered that you focus on fixing Castiel’s problems to avoid thinking about your own?”

“Alright, enough therapy talk,” Dean grumbled.

“Therapy talk is what you pay me for,” Mia reminded him, and Dean could imagine the petite black woman’s smug smile through the phone. “Remember?”

“Yeah, but you agreed to dodge the psychobabble stuff until I’m more comfortable with it.”

“Oh, believe me, Dean. I’m not even touching the edges yet.”

It had been Dean’s own idea to start talking to Mia. He was intensely, inordinately proud of that fact.

But he hadn’t told anybody, other than Castiel. Not even Sam knew yet. He didn’t want Sam to  _ worry _ , like there was something wrong with Dean—that wasn’t it. Dean was fine, as much as the two of them could ever be fine, their lives being what they were.

He liked his repressed traumas to stay right there, thank you, at the bottom of a bottle and behind sleeping eyelids. It was better that way—there was shit even Mia couldn’t, shouldn’t, handle.

Dean had terrible coping methods; he knew that. But he wanted to help Castiel, so very much. It had only taken a few weeks after Castiel started talking to her for Dean to follow suit.

How could he help Cas if he didn’t even know what “healthy” looked like?

Castiel needed someone who knew the right things to say. He needed  _ Dean _ . And if there was one thing that would make Dean swallow down his issues with talking about his feelings, it was that.

Dr. Vallens, or Mia as she insisted on being called, had been much easier to talk to than Dean expected. It felt like talking to a friend, except a friend who really made him think about what was coming out of his asshole mouth, for a change. He had a horrible feeling that stage two was making him think about what  _ wasn’t _ coming out of his asshole mouth.

She never gave him the answers to his problems or told him what to do. But she was very good at guiding him to find his own answers, he'd noticed. Despite himself, he liked her, and he enjoyed their sessions.

They talked for another few minutes, discussing Dean’s week and how he’d handled it, until Dean’s forty-five-minute slot was over.

He often asked Mia what he could do to help Castiel, and even though she would only talk to him in vague terms and give him general ideas about how best to support people who have been through severe trauma, he knew that her advice had been helping. But, just as much, the sessions with Mia were helping him to be able to work through his own issues, too.

“It was good to speak to you, Dean,” Mia said as Dean turned Baby off the highway and into the sitka spruce forest that he now knew so well.

“Thanks, Doc,” Dean replied. “I’m almost at the cabin now, so Cas should be right on time for his three o’clock with you later.”

“I’ll be waiting, of course.”

Dean was smiling as he hung up. It was a beautiful early fall day, warm and breezy, and he’d passed every color of leaf on his way up from Kansas. The forest around the cabin felt timeless by comparison. The spruce were all evergreen, and so little else grew out of the sandy floor that it was easy for Dean to convince himself that he’d only been making these trips for a few weeks, not nearly six months already.

As soon as he’d rounded the cabin and pulled Baby up in front, Dean bounded over to the steps and carefully made his way down to the beach. The breeze was ruffling the washed up seaweed that built up at the bottom of the cliffs, and the air smelled fresh and salty.

Like he often was, as if he could sense Baby’s rumbling approach, Castiel was already waiting. He lay at the edge of the ocean, on his back, looking up at the sky. If an onlooker had strolled past on the clifftop—not that anyone could find this hunter-protected place without already knowing it was here—he would likely have looked like an extremely attractive human guy, up to his waist in the water. But, of course, the closer Dean got to him the clearer his pointed ears and scaly shoulders became, and when the waves drew out ready to crash back in, flashes of deep, dark, holographic black-blue gleamed on the sand.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, rolling his head to the side, his hands cushioning his crown on the sand. “You’re a little later than usual.”

Castiel must be able to tell the time by the sun or through some instinct Dean just didn’t have, Dean figured, because it wasn’t like he had a watch to time Dean by.

“Yeah, I was talking to Mia on the way up here.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, with a smile that could only be described as proud. “And how are you feeling now?”

“Lighter,” Dean admitted. “You ready to come up to the cabin? I brought a bunch of tools so that I can start fixing up that old kitchen, and a new hard drive full of movies that Sam put together for you.”

“That’s kind of him,” Castiel said, sitting up and holding his hands up to Dean familiarly.

As Dean reached down and pulled Castiel into his arms, cradling him into his chest—and pointedly ignoring the sharp pain in his bicep from doing so—Castiel leaned his forehead into Dean’s temple, letting out a small sigh. “I wish I could help you.”

“With what?” Dean said, his focus taken up by navigating the first few algae-covered steps back up off the beach and trying not to make a fool of himself over Castiel’s tiny—surely meaningless—motion.

“Working on the kitchen, renovating the cabin in general—I feel like I am very useless to you.”

“Nah, I’d lose all the screws if I didn’t have you to hold them,” Dean joked.

“And that’s all the use and meaning I have for you? Powerless now, I’m relegated to slithering around the floor to pass you tools?”

Dean thought that Castiel might have originally been going for flippant with his tone, but by the end of his words his voice was flat and sad. Dean felt an irrational burst of frustration. Six months ago, he’d have snapped. He’d have said something dismissive, or joked, or ignored whatever strange feeling was in the air.

All of those things were on the tip of his tongue.

Instead, near the top of the steps, Dean turned to rest his shoulders against the wall, so that he could duck down an inch and search out Castiel’s lonely ocean eyes.

It took Dean a minute to speak, letting out a long, shaky breath before he began.

“I do that, too, y’know. Feel like I always have to be useful, that I’m somehow not…not worthy as a person if I’m not  _ doing _ something.” Dean swallowed hard, but he didn’t look away. “I’ve been trying real hard to get better about it, because Mia was pretty insistent that a person’s worth isn’t tied to how useful they are or what they do. She’s a smart lady, so I guess I’ll have to let her be right, no matter how fuckin’ wrong it sounds to me.”

Castiel’s lips parted, but Dean wasn’t done. It had taken him six months of phone calls and awkward, barely-speaking office visits to get this far, damn it—he was  _ not _ about to be interrupted.

“You’re intrinsically worth something, Cas, just how you are. You don’t have to earn it. To the people that care about us, we have meaning. And you have a lot of meaning to me, Cas. Okay?”

Lips slightly parted, Castiel gazed back right into Dean’s soul, and it  _ hurt _ , but Dean didn’t look away. After a long but strangely comfortable minute, the corner of Castiel’s lip quirked.

“Intrinsic?”

“Okay, so that was Mia’s word, not mine. She’s got me repeating this hippy shit in the mirror every morning, so some of it’s bound to stick. Never believed in therapy but…she makes good points.”

They both chuckled softly, eyes still locked, and Dean was barely aware of the burning, pulling sensation in his bicep from bearing Castiel’s weight, until Castiel’s eyes flicked down to his arm.

“Dean! You’re bleeding!”

Oh. Yeah. That.

Dean pushed up off the rough stone cliffside and ignored the tacky feeling of his t-shirt sleeve being stuck to his arm, and the irritating trickle of the odd rogue droplet gaining its freedom when the fabric ended.

“It’s nothing,” Dean huffed as he lowered Castiel down next to the door so that he could grab his bag and the cabin keys. “Hunting accident, is all. Just got a little bit shot.”

“A little bit shot?” Castiel’s voice was aghast. “How does one get a ‘little bit shot’, Dean?”

“It just grazed me, really. Took a chunk out of the front of my bicep,” Dean explained dismissively, unlocking the cabin door.

Castiel shoved his way in front of Dean menacingly, glowering as he pulled himself across the floor and into the kitchen. He made a beeline for the shaky cabinet under the sink, where a large hunter’s first aid kit was stashed.

“Hey, I can carry you to—”

“Sit  _ down _ ,” Castiel demanded, the rest of his sentence muttered so low that Dean couldn’t catch it, though he’d have bet money the word  _ dumbass _ was in there somewhere.

It only took Castiel a moment to rifle through the first aid kit, dump it on the old plaid couch next to Dean, then wiggle his way back to the kitchen for a bowl and some clean cloths. Dean felt bad that Castiel was dragging himself around to look after him, but he’d learned by now that Castiel was just as stubborn as he was when he got his mind set on something.

Castiel pulled himself up onto the edge of the couch, pushing down firmly on Dean’s shoulder to encourage him to lay back. Touched, even if he was usually totally against being fussed over, Dean let Castiel urge him down onto the flat green pillows that were tossed haphazardly over the ugly plaid surface. (Hunters weren’t known for their interior design skills, for the most part.)

The feeling of Castiel’s fingers—surprisingly soft and warm—sliding under his t-shirt sleeve to roll it up was like a static shock, to Dean. It zapped through his skin and made his lips involuntarily part.

God damn it, why did Sam always have to be so infuriatingly right? Dean had it  _ bad. _ For the fish guy. 

Well, he mused as Castiel bunched the bloodied fabric up above his shoulder, it could be worse. He’d definitely ended up in bed with creatures far more menacing back when he’d bar trawled in his early twenties. And late twenties. And…alright, most of his thirties.

“Ow!” Dean’s attention was dragged swiftly back to Castiel by the  _ poking _ he was doing. “Jesus, Cas. I’m not a hunk of beef, watch the talons.”

“Sorry,” Castiel mumbled mildly, not even looking up. “You still have the remains of some of your initial stitches in here, I’m just getting them out so I can tidy it up.”

Dean sighed and slumped down on the couch arm even further. “Fine,” he grumbled. “But you could have at least involved alcohol.”

With a smug smile, Castiel reached down the side of the couch. A clanking sound brought up the bottle of cheap, high-proof vodka that lived with the first aid kit. He handed it to Dean.

“Not much of a vodka man, usually; this came with the cabin,” Dean said, “but I think an exception can—”

Castiel swiped the bottle as Dean was bringing it toward his lips, pouring a good-sized glug of it over Dean’s open wound.

“AH!” Dean cried sharply, turning his yell into a grunt as he slammed his fist down on the back of the couch. He sucked in a few deep breaths before he whimpered, “Asshole.”

“Baby,” Castiel said teasingly under his breath, before passing the bottle back to Dean.

“Oh, you did  _ not—” _

“I know, I know, you think you’re a badass. Be quiet and drink your vodka, Dean.”

“I think I’m adorable,” Dean muttered, pouting, but nonetheless tossing the bottle back.

Castiel was efficient, distracting Dean by talking in low tones about how his people would pack wounds with certain types of seaweed to aid in the healing process. “This, though,” he declared, “isn’t too bad. I’m sure it’s sore, but it will heal well…if you stop putting pressure on it.”

“I’m not  _ trying _ to split the stitches, you know,” Dean complained.

Castiel averted his eyes, refocusing wholly on the four-inch slash that ran horizontally across the meat of Dean’s bicep, a small valley of flesh excavated by Sam’s accidental bullet. Focusing a little too much, actually.

Dean reached out, wanting to touch his shoulder and bring his guilty eyes back up so that he could tell him it wasn’t his fault, that carrying Castiel was a thing he was happy to do—but then he paused, his fingers curling back an inch above Castiel’s tan skin.

Even now, Dean still hesitated every time he reached out for Castiel, was always scared that he might—

“You can touch me, you know,” Castiel said very quietly. Dean wasn’t sure when Castiel’s eyes had risen back up to rest on him, but they were soft and unflinching. “I know why you don’t. I—I’ve talked to Dr. Vallens about it.”

Caught, Dean’s lips twisted guiltily as he moved his hand away a fraction more. Castiel’s fingers were paused, resting on Dean’s elbow, holding the bandage he’d been about to begin wrapping.

“I just…” Dean trailed off, rearranging his thoughts a bunch of times. “I don’t want anything to—”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted, a whisper at best, but firm. “It’s okay. You aren’t like them—your touch doesn’t feel like them. I feel safe with you.”

Relief flooded Dean’s chest like a soft rush of warm water. Something about the gentle, direct way that Castiel said it had Dean choking up in a very unmanly way, and Dean had to look down at the wound on his arm to get his composure back.

It looked better already, and after a pause, Castiel went back to carefully bandaging over it. Once he tucked the ends in, his hands remained. His fingers rested on the white, crepey fabric, and his thumb shifted slowly over the swell of Dean’s bicep.

Dean drew in a breath, filling his warm, buzzing lungs to the top, then reached out.

He rested his hand on the side of Castiel’s face, his fingertips tangling in the silky, soft darkness of Castiel’s hair. At the first touch, Castiel’s eyes snapped up and locked with Dean's; Dean didn’t pull back, just stroked his fingers through the slightly damp strands.

Castiel smiled, a soft flush at his neck, and closed his eyes as he leaned into Dean’s touch.

“Thanks for fixing me,” Dean whispered, shifting his arm just a little in Castiel’s hands to show what he meant.

“You’re welcome, Dean,” Castiel said, not opening his eyes.

“Want me to fill up the little pool, and we can put on a movie before your therapy appointment?” Dean asked.

Castiel’s eyes fluttered open and he nodded. “I’d like that—but maybe just a wet blanket. I’d rather be on the couch with you.”

Well. Dean wasn’t going to argue with that.

After grabbing a blanket from the stash that he kept at the cabin and dampening it in the kitchen sink, Dean flopped down on the couch and nodded for Castiel to clamber up beside him. Once Cas had settled against the cushions, his tail curled primly to the side of himself, Dean helped him spread the blanket out across his lap.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel murmured, giving him a little smile.

“No problem,” Dean said, tucking the damp blanket as best he could before leaning forward to open his laptop on the coffee table. He began to scroll through movies Sam had sent along, occasionally calling out a title for Castiel to consider.

Castiel answered with a series of thoughtful hums, letting Dean choose.

As he went through the collection of westerns, action movies, and comedies, Dean began to notice Castiel shifting out of the corner of his eye. Flicking his gaze back surreptitiously, Dean took in Castiel’s distant expression as he stared, unseeing, out of the tiny cabin window. He looked like his thoughts were a million miles away, somewhere out across the Pacific.

Dean was about to ask Castiel what he was thinking about when he noticed his hand; resting at the base of his neck, his fingers shifting slightly in the hollow of his collarbone.

Something in Dean’s chest  _ ached _ , a sense of loss that didn’t even belong to him pulling at his ribs.

“You miss it, huh,” Dean said.

Castiel let out another agreeing hum, as if Dean had simply reeled off another movie title. 

“Hey,” Dean prompted, sitting back on the couch and nudging Castiel’s tail with his knee, snapping his attention from the window. “Your amulet. Even after all this time, you still feel kinda naked without it, huh?”

Castiel squinted. “I don’t wear clothes in this form, Dean. I’m  _ always _ naked.”

Dean opened his mouth to explain before he spotted the twinkle in the merman’s eye. “Ass,” he grumbled instead.

Castiel grinned before he nodded, his expression falling slightly as he responded. “Yes, you’re right. I suppose that’s a reasonable way to describe the sensation. It’s something that was with me since I was a tiny fry. No matter how long passes, I still feel strangely bare.”

Dean hardly spared a thought to what he was doing before his hands came up to dig under his shirt, pulling the leather cord of the brass amulet he always wore and tugging it loose. He slipped it over his head and gestured for Castiel to lean forward.

“Here,” Dean said softly, looping the cord around Castiel’s neck and tightening it so that the strange, demon-like charm sat in the hollow of his throat. “Maybe this’ll help.”

Castiel blinked sharply, looking down at Dean’s hands as he settled the leather cord against Castiel’s skin, smoothing it somewhat more than necessary. “But...Dean, you always wear this. It’s special.”

Dean shrugged one shoulder. “My brother gave it to me when I was a kid, so yeah, it’s special. But you could look after it for me, if you wanted.”

A smile curled one side of Castiel’s mouth. “Look after it for you?”

“Yeah. Y’know, just...keep an eye on it for a while. Important job.”

Castiel’s eyes shone as he rested a hand over the metal, relaxing into a wide, soft smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

“No problem, Cas,” Dean said, biting his tongue not to add,  _ anything for you.  _ Sam was never going to let him hear the end of this when he noticed.

The air crackled and held for a long moment, until Castiel cleared his throat and gestured to the laptop. “The one with the zombies sounded fun. You like zombies.”

Dean agreed and fired up  _ 28 Days Later. _ They settled in to watch, quiet and content. If Dean didn’t remember much of what happened on the screen...well, it was fine. He’d seen the movie before anyway.

Dean tossed his overnight bag into Baby’s trunk, among the knives and guns and ammo, causing a loud clank from the pile of blessed chains that it landed on. The back of the Impala was deceptive—Dean was sure that it would look like chaos to anyone who didn’t know his system, who didn’t know that every bag of salt and silver bullet was counted in and out, that he could find an iron bar or a jar of lamb’s blood at a moment’s notice when he needed to. He could probably kill twenty different types of creatures without even stretching into the seldom-used depths.

Reaching up with both hands, Dean slammed the trunk closed and rolled the tension out of his neck. He had everything he needed for the last hour of his visit on the back seat—a change of clothes, a towel, some snacks for the road, a thermos of coffee. Opening the back door, Dean quickly shucked his jeans and stripped off his shirt, kicking his boots into Baby’s footwell as he grabbed a towel.

The bandage around his upper arm was firm and neat, and the wound already felt substantially better than it had when he’d arrived the morning before. Even though initially he’d tried to insist that Dean should rest, Dean had managed to persuade Castiel that just one little swim would be fine before he left—he could wrap it up and just splash around, keep his upper body out of the water just beyond the waves where the beach sloped out. Dean knew that Castiel secretly loved it when Dean swam with him, or dived, or even just frolicked in the waves.

So, frolic he would. Even if he couldn’t manage to even think the word “frolic” without smirking.

Dean felt a bit guilty for having to leave early this time—Castiel hadn’t said anything, but Dean knew he was disappointed. Hell, Dean was disappointed, too. But Sam was on a case in Wyoming that had turned into more than a one-person deal, and Dean would  _ always _ want Sam to err on the side of caution.

Grabbing his towel from the backseat, Dean headed down the cliffside to the beach barefoot, in just his swim shorts. He could dry off on the beach in an hour or so, then head straight out to meet Sam—overnight in Oregon, then straight on to WY in the morning. As his feet hit the damp, cool sand, Dean contemplated how much he simply  _ didn’t want to go. _

Of course, he would go. He’d never leave Sam hanging, not in a million years. But these weekends with Castiel…more and more, they’d become the part of life he looked forward to. Hunting was his job, his calling, but as the months had rolled smoothly on in Castiel’s company, thoughts of the fabled “R” word had grown ever more prominent in Dean’s mind.

Retirement.

He used to think he’d never be able to do it. That he couldn’t sit still long enough, that he just wasn’t built for it, even if by some miracle he lived that long.

Most hunters didn’t. The fact that Dean had hit his forties, with Sam not far behind, was a whole-ass miracle, to Dean. And damn, the world had it out for them, more than once. There had to be some kinda divine intervention involved in their continuing existence, Dean was sure.

So maybe that meant that it  _ was _ possible? That somehow he deserved it? That part, Dean could never convince himself of.

Even Bobby, the grizzled old hunter that had half-raised Dean and Sam, had never  _ truly _ retired, had he? He had his house, and his car lot, the acres of salvaged metal and scraps that were somehow a comfort to him—but even then, he wasn’t  _ out _ , was he? Dean could still recall the line of telephones on his wall, labeled with everything from “FBI” to “CDC.” He could still smell the mustiness of the ancient tomes in Bobby’s extended library, if he closed his eyes. No, Bobby might have retired from  _ hunting _ , sure, but to actually get out in the true sense? That never happened.

“There was a storm off the coast,” Castiel called, jolting Dean out of his head.

“A storm?” Dean said, wiggling his toes in the damp sand as he turned to throw his towel up the beach, beyond the waves.

“Yes, it’s washed all kinds of corals and debris further into the shallows. It’s quite pretty now that it’s settled.”

“Show me,” Dean said, running into the cool water to greet Castiel where he floated, chest above the foam, just beyond the wave line.

“Of course,” Castiel said, reaching for Dean’s hand.

Castiel tugged him toward the south side of the beach, where the cliff wall jutted out into the sea. He kept looking over at Dean, examining his arm every few moments, checking that his bandage stayed dry and clean.

Instead of bugging him, Castiel’s concern made Dean smile.

Dean  _ hated _ being fussed over or accommodated. He wasn’t worth that. But apparently, he was okay with it from Castiel.

It had to be Dr. Vallens fault, Dean decided. Damn that woman and her brain fixin’ skills.

“The waves here are a little stronger,” Castiel was saying, “but it should be fine if your bandage gets splashed a little, as long as it stays mostly clean and dry.”

“I covered it in saran wrap,” Dean comforted, biting back his smile. “It’ll be fine. I can clean it before I leave.”

At the mention of Dean leaving, Castiel gave a tiny scowl, and his lip poked out.

“Was that a  _ pout?” _ Dean crowed, fucking delighted at the color Castiel instantly turned. “The grumpy, badass merman  _ pouts _ when his dumb, two-legged friend has to leave, now?”

Castiel flicked his tail, and Dean was soaked, arms and all.

“Wow,” Dean said, shaking the water out of his eyes. “And you were so determined for me to stay dry…”

“I was testing your saran wrap,” Castiel deadpanned.

“Oh, shut up.” Dean laughed, splashing Castiel back—it was a bit of a feeble attempt by comparison, but Castiel grinned anyway.

“Wait here a second,” Castiel said, before sinking down under the water without so much as a ripple.

Dean walked a few more steps to the cliffside itself so that he could rest his butt against an outcropping of stone, fortifying himself against the softly rocking waves. He only waited a few minutes before Castiel popped back up out of the water, his arms laden with colorful gifts.

“Damn,” Dean said in awe, eyeing the colorful sprays and knots of coral that Castiel had heaped up in the crook of his elbow. “I’ve never seen stuff like that out here.”

“There’s a reef,” Castiel said, jerking his head out to sea, “much deeper than I can take you. It’s relatively untouched, though some drag nets have started to cause issues on the eastern side. But storms like yesterday’s dredge up older bits of coral or weak limbs, and bring them further in.”

Dean nodded, watching as Castiel deposited his treasures on the rock.

“Here,” he said, “you should keep this one, it’s a pretty specimen.”

“Cool,” Dean breathed out as Castiel handed him a beautiful, ornate fan of red coral. It was half the length of his forearm, covered in bone-like bumps and delicate holes, almost like living lace—or once-living, at least.

Their fingertips touched and lingered for a moment as Dean examined the coral.

“I can’t ever really give you much, or do much for you,” Castiel said suddenly, quiet as the sea breeze. “But things like this, that you don’t usually get to see—they’re little gifts I can give you that maybe, well, maybe they can be symbolic, even if they have no value.”

Dean’s chest swelled with a tide of appreciation and affection. He lifted his hand from the coral, and turned his new permission to touch Castiel into action, by pulling him into a hug.

“They have value to me,” Dean admitted into the salty side of Castiel’s head, his arms tightening cautiously around his ribs and gills. “Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel stiffened, barely perceptibly, at first—his shoulder fins lifting a silent inch and quivering—before he softened, sinking into Dean and burying his face into the side of Dean’s neck. Dean could feel his smile against his throat.

Deadly teeth rested inches from Dean’s jugular, but he’d never felt safer.

They clung on to each other a little more, and Dean loved every second, cataloged it to memory; the flex of Castiel’s strong arms around him, the soft shifting of Castiel’s gills beneath his fingertips, the way his damp skin smelled salty and fresh, and yet underlaid with some kind of musky, warm scent that Dean knew was just  _ Cas. _

Pulling apart, both of their smiles were a little sheepish.

Dean cleared his throat, tilting his head toward the rock. “Wanna show me what else you’ve got?”

“Yes—” Castiel’s throat clicked, but he recovered, “—yes, of course.”

The waves pushed on Dean’s back and sides, tilting him very slightly this way and that as he stood in the rocky sand at the base of the cliff. He barely felt them though, distracted by the bounty Castiel had brought.

They picked out a couple of pieces for Dean to take back to the bunker—yes, he would probably decorate the bathroom with them, it was no more girly than Sam’s fuckin’ peach-scented shampoo that was already in there—and carried them back up to the beach. The red fan coral, of course, a fist-sized ball of something that Dean privately thought looked kinda like a zombie brain, and another fan, more purple in tone than the first.

Leaving them safely on the sand, they went back to their unashamed frolicking in the waves.

The sun moved across the sky, and Dean knew that he’d have to get ready to go if he wanted to reach Sam at any kind of reasonable time the next day.

Dean looked over to where Castiel lazed above him on the sand. Dean’s lower half was in the water, and Castiel was sprawled on his side above Dean’s head, enjoying the warmth while they’d had an in-depth discussion about whether Harrison Ford was hotter in  _ Star Wars,  _ or  _ Indiana Jones. _ Dean favored the former, Castiel the latter.

“Hey,” Dean said, gently snagging the end of Castiel’s tail between his fingers and tugging. “Pass me my towel, will you? I need to get dried off so I can go.”

A sulky moment later, the towel landed on Dean’s face.

“Rude,” Dean muttered into the fabric. He didn’t bother to move; he was so comfortable, and warm, and so at peace. Maybe another few minutes—

Castiel’s fantastical blue eyes appeared above Dean as the towel shifted. Looking apologetic, he shook the sand out before flapping the towel out like a flag and laying it on top of Dean’s head, rubbing at his hair for him. “Sorry,” he said softly.

“What for?” Dean said, his voice muffled by moving fabric as he sat up further, reaching up to take over from Castiel.

“I just—I shouldn’t sulk,” Castiel admitted awkwardly. “It’s not fair.”

Dean shook out his head and draped the towel around his shoulders, digging his heels into the wet sand so that he could edge slightly closer to Castiel.

“It’s cool, man,” Dean said, grinning across at Castiel’s guilty face. “It’s not like I want to go.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m just saying it?”

Castiel shrugged, and Dean noticed the shifting of his shoulder fins again, the way they stood out just slightly from his skin, hovering tensely.

Eliminating the space between them, Dean bumped his hip right up against Castiel’s as he reached to draw his eyes upwards, hooking a finger under Castiel’s jaw.

“Dude, no,” Dean said. God, he sucked at this, at saying what he meant without—without  _ admitting, _ terrifyingly, what he actually meant. “I’m gonna come back.”

Castiel nodded, but their eyes stayed focused on each other’s, inches apart.

“Cas,” Dean said, more softly. “I mean it, okay? No matter what, I will always come back to you—as long as you want me.”

They were still, only the water around them moving.

“Look, I could—if you wanted, I mean, I could check in with Sam for this case and then I could head to the bunker and get some more clothes and food and stuff, and I could—” Dean’s words caught him up and he choked, not quite able to get the last one out.

_ Stay. _

It was the thing he’d never said, never asked, not sure if it was too much, or even wanted at all.

But it was right there, in Castiel’s eyes and shoulders and the soft catch of breath that made his gills flare.  _ Stay. _

Dean moistened his lips.

“If you wanted me to,” he repeated quietly.

Castiel’s sea blue irises got bigger for a moment as he leaned in, then they disappeared entirely as he closed his eyes.

The kiss was as deep as the trenches of the ocean, salty and damp and oh so  _ warm,  _ Castiel’s lips burning against the chill of the drying sea on Dean’s skin.

Dean stuttered; his lungs and mind both shuddering to a halt as his own eyes fluttered shut, pulled in like a tiny boat on an endless tide. The fresh scent that Dean had identified earlier from Castiel filled his senses now; like the salt was lining his lungs and making him a part of the ocean, too. The kiss was sudden, certainly unplanned, but Castiel's lips were gentle against Dean's and pressed forward without a trace of the sharp teeth within, as if his intent not to harm Dean was automatic, instinctual.

All of the nights Dean had spent alone in his bed at the bunker, tasting salt on his lips while his eyes were closed, came flooding back into his mind. Then they faded away, nothing to the real thing.

Dean had dreamed of this.

And it was exactly everything Dean had dreamed of.

Until Castiel pulled away, sudden and sharp, sucking in air like he’d been drowning. “Dean, I—I’m sorry, I—”

“Woah—” Dean began, his hands already raising in protest, making a soothing gesture.

Dean had every word lined up on his tongue to tell Castiel that the kiss was perfect, was exactly what he wanted, was so, so far beyond okay.

But his voice was swallowed up in a crashing splash, and his words were lost in the wake of the waves as Castiel fled, cold spray coating Dean and shocking his warm, drying body.

“Cas!” Dean yelled, scrabbling up to his knees, wading into the water.

Dean stood in the sea till his skin wrinkled.

Then he sat on a driftwood log on the beach, time rolling forward in silence until the sun began to set. He stared out over the ocean. The ocean just let him, cold and blue and empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, please remember to look at the happy ending tag before you throw things at me, LOL. Downgrade from throwing sharp things to something a little softer, maybe? I'd appreciate it, I bruise easily.
> 
> I'm back on schedule for posting, and very much looking forward to engaging with you all again. I really do appreciate you all reading, so very much. I hope you know how much of a smile all of your comments have kept on my face these past few weeks.
> 
> Coming up: Dean and Sam have a case to solve, and Dean has to put himself out there.
> 
> Thank you for reading, as always!
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> P.S. If you would like updates, please [subscribe!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile) You can also follow me on my social media, over on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MalMuses), [Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/), and [Instagram.](https://www.instagram.com/mal_muses/?hl=en)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! Happy Holidays, whatever you may celebrate!
> 
> More mermaids! I hope the minor cliffhanger last week can be thoroughly forgiven after this week. Now, though: an important note! The smut, it's coming (pun fully intended). As you may have noticed from the notes, I wanted to make sure that this fic was readable for folks of all comfort levels, so I have made the smut in this chapter **skippable**. How to do that? Read scenes one and two, then skip through scene three. I will summarize the important points in the endnote for you, so that you won't miss out on anything. I hope that helps anyone who isn't sure about it!
> 
> The thanks: Again, [lizleeships](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/?hl=en) absolutely dumbfounded me with this weeks art. She deserves special kudos this week, because she had such a lot on her plate and I know it was rough getting this done. If y'all only knew the time she managed to produce this beauty in... very proud of you, Liz. You constantly astound me :)
> 
> Please do go give the art some love on [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/?hl=en) and [Tumblr](https://lizleeships.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Of course, thanks as always to EllenOfOz and captainhaterade for making sure you aren't reading about Dead and Sad Winchester and their mermaid friend Caz. 
> 
> Thank you for reading - remember to skip the smut if you're iffy about it! I'd rather you all be comfy <3
> 
> \- Mal <3

Sam was pissed that Dean was so late to meet him in Wyoming. By the time Dean rolled into the town of Cody, “Buffalo Bill Center of the West,” it was late afternoon, and he was desperately hungry. He hadn’t left North Cove until after the sun had set, waiting and hoping that Castiel might come back.

He hadn’t.

“It’s a haunted hotel, Dean, an entire hotel. I could use some backup whose mind isn’t somewhere else entirely, and who isn’t half-asleep.”

“Sorry,” Dean snapped grumpily. “I drove as fast as I could, okay? Barely got my four hours.”

Irma Hotel had been built by Buffalo Bill, Sam had enthusiastically gushed down the phone to Dean. It was genuinely old and, as it turned out, genuinely haunted. From its corner lot, the huge wraparound porch that spread along both sides of the hotel had greeted thousands of people in its time, which made pinpointing exactly who the ghost was a bit of a challenge—when a town, and its famous hotel, had been around since 1895, the number of people that had died in the place was pretty damn high.

Sam had done the legwork, though—their ghostie was a Ms. Elspeth Ardle, a broken-hearted old wench who’d taken up residence in the hotel while she waited for her lover to return to Cody from Rattlesnake Mountain, north of the town.

He never came back, and she never left.

Like, _never_.

Now they just had to draw the violent spirit out, away from the terrified patrons who were hoping for wild west reenactments and hearty dinners, not transparent old ladies hovering above their beds and screaming.

It took hours. Dean got the short end of the stick, running around the hotel with a salt-loaded shotgun and trying to keep her occupied while Sam attempted to steal a painting from the huge, cherry-paneled bar below.

Painting seized, salted, and burned, Dean and Sam both headed back to the bar to recover.

The room was old and beautiful, the panels on the walls were ornately carved and impressive. It was filled with art and trinkets from the old west, and normally Dean would have been chomping at the bit to count the cowboys in the paintings—he fuckin’ loved cowboys—but today all he wanted was, in true old west style, to drown his sorrows.

“Beer,” Dean rasped vaguely to the barman. His thighs ached—dammit, this hotel had more stairs than he’d thought.

“Two, please,” Sam clarified, shoving Steve Perry’s credit card across the bar.

The cold, bitter foam of a bottle of Texan Star went a long way to soothe the ache in Dean’s thighs, even if it didn’t do quite as much for the one in his chest.

“Good job getting her salted and burned,” Dean said as his second beer was delivered, raising it to clink with Sam at his side.

“Good job keeping her occupied,” Sam returned.

They stayed silent for a few more minutes, sipping and slowly letting the tension out of their muscles.

“Alright,” Sam said, lowering his bottle to the bar. “Out with it.”

“With what?” Dean said, his eyes firmly locked on the rows of bottles behind the bar, resting his beer at the corner of his lip for easy, swift access.

“You were super-late. That’s not like you. What happened?”

“I, uh,” Dean said eloquently. He was sure he could tell Sam what had happened, and he was fairly sure that Sam wouldn’t judge him. Moderately sure that Sam would sympathize, would probably even say he saw it coming. But damn, talking was hard.

“All that therapy, and you’ve still only got ‘I, uh’?”

Dean bristled, lowering his beer bottle. “How’d you know about that?”

“Lucky guess, which you just confirmed. I’m not stupid, Dean.”

Slumping forward, Dean buried his face in the heels of his hands. “Maybe I am.”

“No, you’re not either,” Sam chastised, knocking his knee against Dean’s thigh between their stools. “You just act like it a lot.”

Dean grunted. Stupid brothers and their stupid being right.

“What happened up there?” Sam asked again. “You and Cas have a fight, or something?”

Picking up a napkin so he had something to do with his hands, Dean ran his thumb back and forth over the tiny, red _Irma Hotel_ text as he barked out an uncomfortable laugh. “Nah. Opposite.”

“Opposite of a fight,” Sam said slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see Sam’s five-head wrinkling in confusion as his brain-cogs whirred. “So, you didn’t fight, you made up? Or you— _oh.”_

And there it was, the moment when the door swung open on Sam’s big ol’ thatched barn.

For a moment there was another silence, more tense, before Sam spoke again.

“You’re going to have to throw me a bone here, Dean, because if it was what I thought, then…well, I figured you’d be happy. And you don’t seem happy.”

Dean raised his hand and flagged down the barman. “Whiskey—whatever is cheapest. Seriously, I’m gonna be here a while.”

Sam’s eyebrows raised slowly. “Okay...guess I’m driving.”

“Looks like it,” Dean said. While he waited for the liquor to arrive, he puffed out a long breath and turned his head to look fully at Sam. “So, you—you don’t think it’s weird?”

Sam’s face became pinched and pissy-looking, his blinking frequency increasing pointedly. “Weird? You? You with the tentacle-porn fetish, which you’ve left open on _my_ laptop more than once?”

Dean shrugged flippantly. “Whatever. That’s just porn, it’s not _real_.”

“Are you seriously asking me if I think it’s weird that you have a thing for Cas? Like, if I’m going to judge you?”

Feeling the skin below his ears heat, Dean reached up to rub at the nape of his neck. He was about to respond when the whiskey arrived, offering a blessed distraction. He could still feel the burn from the first sip when Sam piped up again.

“Because if you actually thought I was going to be an ass about it, then I’m a little offended.”

“No, I didn’t really think you’d react badly. Not much, anyway,” Dean confessed.

“So…” Sam said meaningfully, his finger tapping impatiently on his whiskey glass rim. “You do. Have a thing. For like…fins?”

“Jesus, Sam—” Dean shook his head sharply. Did this have to be so hard? Fuck’s sake. “No, not fins. Not a _thing_ , okay? The only thing I have is for Cas.”

Sam was quiet.

“It’s not a _thing,_ it’s…” Dean trailed off, focused on the swiftly melting ice that glided silently across the bottom of his glass as he tilted it. What had Mia taught him to do? To rehearse the words in his head, to pack his stopped-up emotions into them, and to…let them go.

Sam waited.

“I’m in love with him, Sam. I fell in love with Cas. I don’t really know how, or when…there was something there, right from the beginning. You saw that, I think. But now—fuck, now I know him, okay? And it’s…it’s so much stronger.”

When Dean dared to look up, there was so much _pride_ in Sam’s smile that the irrational, pre-Mia part of Dean kinda wanted to punch it right off of his face. Really make his hair fly.

Luckily, Sam knew Dean far better than he knew himself, even after six months of trying to untangle his own crap. So, Sam just reached across the bar, shoving his still-full whiskey glass at Dean, and signaled for another. Then he smiled, keeping the intense proudness of it pointed firmly down at the counter, and said, “You picked a good one. Cas’ll run circles around you. Or…swim circles, I guess?”

“Swim,” Dean agreed. “Until we can get that amulet back.”

“Well, I’ve been looking into that still, when I’ve had time,” Sam said. “Tried to focus on finding mer, rather than how the amulets work, like we said. All I’ve found so far is an old spell in a journal they had at the bunker—it was written by a pirate, way back in the seventeenth century, but he certainly seems to have, uh, known his stuff, when it comes to mermaids.”

“Pirate who knew his mermaids, huh? Well, it gets lonely at sea, and if half of them are as attractive as Cas—”

“The spell could summon the spirit of an ancestor,” Sam steamrolled onward, side-eying Dean. “Mer revere their forebears, almost like a religion. If we do the spell, we might be able to ask one of Castiel’s ancestors about the amulets, I guess. Maybe.”

“That sounds promising...too promising,” Dean said suspiciously. “Why didn’t you say anything already—what’s the catch?”

“Well, we need some of Cas’ scales to do it. And it's a really slim chance.”

Dean shook his head. “No. I don’t wanna take anything more from him than we already did, and I don’t wanna get his hopes up, either. Not unless we’re a lot more sure than a ‘maybe.’” 

“We should put more focus into research, then,” Sam said decisively. “I can cut back on hunts, put more time into it. Make a few calls to the right kind of hunters. We’ll find an amulet, Dean. I promise.”

If they’d have been huggier people, Dean would have jumped off his bar stool. Generally, though, Winchesters were a little more understated with their affection, life-or-death situations notwithstanding. Instead, he reached across and squeezed Sam’s shoulder. They shared a small smile.

“Right. So,” Sam spoke up, before clearing his throat forcefully. “What’s with the long face and the lateness? You figured out you love the guy—I don’t believe for a minute that he doesn’t feel the same. I have eyes.”

“We kissed,” Dean confessed to the wet ring his empty beer bottle had left. “Well—he kissed me. I was all in, but he freaked out.”

“Why?” Sam asked, leaning his arms on the bar as he looked at Dean.

“I don’t think he really planned to do it, it just happened. He didn’t seem scared, like it reminded him of something bad or anything, he was just apologizing a lot—I guess he wasn’t sure that I felt the same way he did, or something like that. Or he thought that he didn’t have permission? I dunno.”

“So, did you tell him?”

“I would have!” Dean exclaimed, grabbing at his whiskey glass again with a frustrated swipe and downing the last of what had once been Sam’s drink before he spoke again. “He just…turned tail and swam away in a panic. Literally, swam right outta the cove. I waited, hoping that he’d come back, but he didn’t. That’s why I was late.”

“Oof,” said Sam.

“Yeah,” Dean said dryly. “Oof.”

“It’s probably kinda hard for him, y’know?” Sam pointed out, rolling his glass between his hands slowly. “After the way humans treated him, the things they did to him…probably never figured he’d fall in love with one.”

“I know that!” Dean grumbled, dropping his head back to the heel of his hand. “I know that’s probably gonna bring other issues, too, even if we can sort this out. He’s probably kind of a mess still, sexually. Even if he says he feels safe with me, who knows what that’d bring up for him? I mean, I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to—”

“Oh-kay, that part is between you and him,” Sam butted in.

“I’m not even sure _how_ merfolk—”

“Ask him, not me,” Sam hissed, sounding increasingly distressed.

“I don’t wanna upset him, Sam!”

“Well, you’re upsetting me!”

Dean glared. “Don’t be a prude, Samantha. Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered. You know, a good brother would—”

“If you say any version of ‘research your kinda-boyfriend’s mating habits,’ then this conversation is done.”

“Nah,” Dean said, grinning as he crunched down on the last chunk of ice from his glass. “I was gonna say ‘find out where his dick’s at’.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re the best brother in the world, Sammy.”

“I’m not helping you.”

“Of course, you aren’t,” Dean agreed amiably.

With a sigh, Sam pulled out his phone and brought up his notepad app. “You’re the worst. We will never talk about this again, deal?”

Dean smirked. “Sure thing, Sam.”

They stayed at the bar for a couple of hours, unwinding and talking about lighter things. Dean was comforted, knowing that Sam had his back, that they’d devote time to the amulet issue and try to give Castiel back the missing part of his freedom.

Beyond that…Dean tried not to worry that he’d messed up, somehow. Tried to put the panic in Castiel’s eyes from his mind. He’d come back. He _had_ to come back; Dean couldn’t wrap his head around anything else.

Dean was stubborn, so he was going to be stubborn about Castiel. He’d fix this.

He just had to figure out how he was going to fix it without any way of _finding_ Cas.

Sam herded him into Baby later that night, cranking her engine to life and quietly playing _Ramble On_ from the tape that lived almost permanently in the deck. As the familiar notes and lyrics floated through the Impala’s cabin and wrapped comfortingly around him, Dean suddenly worked out how. 

Dean only stayed one night at the bunker before turning around and heading right back to North Cove.

He packed up fresh clothes, grabbed a few more tools for the work he planned on doing to the cabin’s dilapidated kitchen, and spent a good half-hour enjoying the bunker’s superior water pressure. Then, after a solid night’s sleep on his glorious memory foam, he headed straight back out.

The drive passed in a strange, calm blur. He didn’t even stop; he drove through the day and right through the next night, with only brief stops for coffee and gas. His dad used to call it road fever: a strange, hyper-focused mental state where you could drive for hours and hours, covering a huge distance safely and steadily, and yet be able to remember almost none of the journey.

When Dean guided Baby into the sitka spruce forest, he felt like he’d only been on the road for seven or eight hours…but the sun was rising, making a liar of his own perception.

He was barely even tired, the nervousness in his muscles keeping him at a low, alert buzz.

Just as Dean cut the engine after pulling the Impala up in front of the cabin, a few stray drops of rain landed on her windshield. Dean craned his neck to look up at the sky; there were only a few gray clouds, but more on the horizon. Typical.

“Should probably add a winter shelter for Baby to the cabin renovation list,” Dean muttered to himself. The hunter who’d officially owned this place had died nearly a decade before; he doubted that they’d mind some more improvements being made. He’d already begun ripping out the 1970’s kitchen and re-plumbed the tiny bathroom—what was one more project to see him through the winter?

Dean quickly straightened up the car’s front seat. He’d grabbed a couple of candy bars and a coffee at the last gas station he’d stopped at, so he shoved the trash into a stray Gas’n’Sip bag and tied them up. He tidied all of his cassette tapes back into their shoebox that lived on the floorboard, before ejecting the one he’d been listening to—Cheap Trick’s _One on One_. He ran his thumb over the peeling label before adding it to the pile. He’d picked out the original, 1982 tape before he’d left the bunker, knowing exactly what he wanted to listen to, what he wanted to get firmly set at the forefront of his mind.

Taking a deep breath, Dean grabbed his towel and got moving.

By the time he’d made his way down to the beach, Dean already had his shirt off. He left it with his boots and jeans, high up on the dry sand, out of the way of the chill spray that fall had brought to the edge of the cove.

“Alright,” Dean pep-talked himself softly under his breath. “I got this. Yup. Totally got this.”

The cliff edges were lined with large rocks, smoothed down to fairly comfortable seats thanks to the frequent tides. Dean headed for one of the closer spots, the water barely past his knees as he approached it.

“Not nervous at all. Nope.”

Dean pulled himself up onto the rock, so he could perch on the edge of it with his feet in the water below. The water was cold, but not freezing, too early in the season for him to give up his frequent sea paddles just yet.

He ran his hands down his face, rolling his eyes up to the gathering clouds above. “This is dumb,” he announced to himself. “But here I am anyway.”

Returning his eyes to the waves, Dean steeled himself. He felt idiotic, but if this worked…well, if this worked, it’d all be worth it.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean whispered down to the water splashing at the edges of his rock with every wave. “You could be at the other end of the goddamn Pacific Ocean, for all I know, but…well, I hope you’ve got your ears on.”

Dean started humming. Just to get the tune right—it didn’t matter if the notes were pretty, he was sure, but he didn’t want to totally embarrass himself. Not if he could help it, anyway.

Puffing out an anxious final breath, Dean closed his eyes and started to tap out the guitar-filled intro to Cheap Trick’s _If You Want My Love_ on his thigh.

_“If you want my love, you got it,”_ Dean began, a slight shake to his voice that came more from his stress over whether this would work than from the words he was singing—confessing—to Castiel.

Dean squeezed his eyes a bit tighter and raised his voice a little. _“When you need my love, you got it…”_

Relaxing into it, Dean’s shoulders dropped as he carried on singing.

_“I won’t hide it, I won’t throw your love away, ooh…”_

It was much easier to commit once he got into the feel of it, bellowing his way through the first verse alone in the cove, just like he was driving in Baby with the windows down and not a care in the world.

_“_ _You hold the secrets of love in this world, I'm hypnotized by your every word….”_ Dean sang, pushing the notes out, loud and long, as if he could somehow force them to cross the miles.

_“A special face, a special voice,”_ he continued, fists balled, focusing everything he could on Cas, and his desperate desire for him to come back, _“a special smile in my life…”_

The water rolled around Dean’s knees, a few impatient waves licking part-way up his thighs on the rock, and he could feel fresh drops of the incoming rain on his face.

_“If you want my love, you got it. When you need my love, you got it. I won’t hide it, I won’t throw your love away, ooh...”_

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean practically fell off his rock, slithering down into the water with an inelegant splash. He stood on the sandy bottom, wide-eyed, as he looked out beyond the cove’s small sand bar.

“Cas,” he said, his voice suddenly tuneless and weak. “You came back.”

Castiel ducked down into the water, approaching under the waves. He resurfaced a couple of feet in front of Dean, water cascading off him like diamonds in the early morning light.

“Yes. I was hunting out on the reef and I heard you,” he said, his eyes dropping. He fidgeted, his hands clenching and his shoulder fins stretching out and back repeatedly, like little wings. “I’m sorry that I fled.”

“It’s okay,” Dean said, understanding only as he said so that it really was. “I’m not mad or anything—I was worried. About you, that I…I did something to upset you. Or that you, uh, regretted what happened and you’d had enough of me.”

Dean barked out a dismissive laugh, but immediately realized that he was rubbing at the back of his neck in an anxious fidget not that dissimilar to Castiel’s own nervy shifting. He dropped his hand down to his side, resting it on the rock beside him.

Castiel’s eyes came up from the water to land on Dean, the blue of them perfectly reflecting the sea around them. “No,” he said quickly. “I was afraid and embarrassed, but it wasn’t your fault.”

“Afraid?” Dean asked, his stomach slowly turning to stone.

“Not of you, just that I—that you didn’t _want_ , or return my, uhm,” Castiel answered quietly, pausing to swallow hard. “I shouldn’t have done that, I didn’t plan to, it just…happened.”

“Oh,” said Dean, studying the ripples around his hips intensely. The water was creeping up, making its daily journey to reclaim the beach.

The ocean pushed at Dean and yelled noisily around them as they stood in silence, and Dean wasn’t sure if the water was trying to pull him in or warn him away. _I shouldn’t have_ , Castiel said—but what was _shouldn’t?_ A fear? A mistake? An incorrect assumption?

All of Dean’s hours with Mia failed him, and he stood tongue-tied in the tide.

“It’s going to rain,” Castiel said, breaking the long moment of tense quiet. “It’ll be cold. You should…”

Dean looked up again to see Castiel gesturing vaguely up the cliff to the cabin. He looked miserable.

The breeze was picking up, the raindrops hitting Dean’s bare shoulders growing fatter, the clouds darker, fighting against the increasing sunlight.

“Guess so.” Dean struggled to get the words out, his jaw feeling tight and achy, a prickling behind his eyes. Blinking once or twice, he turned and stepped toward the shore, pushing through the weight of the water and making it back to the beach.

“Dean—” Castiel’s hand darted out, as sharp and gentle as ever, and his taloned fingers curled oh-so-precisely around Dean’s wrist. “Did you mean it?”

Cabin forgotten, Dean turned.

Castiel’s eyes were so big and round that Dean could drown in them. He looked raw, stripped down to an aching vulnerability that was totally at odds against everything Dean knew about his stubborn, strong warrior-friend.

“Did you mean it?” Castiel repeated again, his voice weaker but his fingers tighter. “What you sang—was it true?”

Dean crumbled; any resistance was simply eroded away by Castiel’s watery, desperate tone. He dropped down to his knees in the wet sand so that there was barely more than an inch of difference in height between their heads, twisting his hand around to grasp Castiel’s wrist in turn.

“C’mere,” Dean choked out, tugging Castiel just a little further.

Willingly, Castiel came forward, his tail curling around him in the shifting sand as he came to the very edge of the waves, white foam clinging to his scales.

Dean knee-walked across the shore until there wasn’t even breathing space between them, their wet, bare chests clinging from hip to collarbone. Dean’s hands scooped under Castiel’s jaw, and he felt his throat catch beneath the pads of his thumbs.

Closing his eyes for a moment, hoping that the couple of relieved tears that escaped could be confused for ocean water or trickling raindrops, Dean huffed out a soft, amazed laugh and pressed their foreheads together.

“We’re communicating pretty badly,” Dean whispered. “Mia would be prompting us to start with _I statements_.”

Dean felt the roll of Castiel’s nod against his forehead, heard his answering amused, nervous huff of air.

“She would,” he agreed, his jaw only moving fractionally in Dean’s hands.

Dean opened his eyes. “I love you,” he said.

Castiel’s eyes closed slowly, dreamily, and his brow pressed harder into Dean’s, his hands coming to Dean’s shoulders, gripping tight. He was smiling. He let out a long, slow breath, one that sounded like he’d held it somewhere much deeper than his lungs.

“Say it again,” Castiel whispered.

“I love you,” Dean said, quieter, sliding his hands down from Castiel’s jaw so that he could pull him into a hug instead.

The waves reaching up around them churned enthusiastically, rocking them together as Castiel’s grin grew. “Again,” he murmured.

“I love you,” Dean said, laughing a little. “Don’t be greedy, Cas. Where’s mine?”

Castiel turned his head, nuzzling his face into Dean’s and pressing his gummy, sharp grin into Dean’s cheek. “I love you, too. I love you, I love you.”

It sounded so good to hear, the deep, rumbling words of Castiel’s ocean bedrock voice settling somewhere far down in Dean and making themselves a home between his ribs. The move felt permanent, and Dean looked forward to all the junk that those words could help him throw out now that they lived within him.

Giddy, Dean pressed his lips to Castiel’s jaw, his cheek, his temple.

Impatient, Castiel grabbed Dean’s face and joined their mouths instead.

****

The rain beat down steadily on the thin, single-paned window opposite the cabin’s tiny couch. Outside was gray and tumultuous, one of the season’s first real rainstorms, and the weak midmorning light barely made its way into the living room. It didn’t matter. There was a movie playing on Dean’s laptop, but no one was paying much attention to it.

Dean couldn’t even remember what it was—he thought he’d clicked on _Lord of the Rings_ , but which one? It was all green and full of trees, but that hardly helped. Might even have been _The Hobbit,_ for all he knew or cared.

Against Dean’s chest, Castiel readjusted himself as he settled back down on the couch. He rested his head on the long pillow he was sharing with Dean, snatched from the old twin bed in the back room. Castiel’s skin was slick and damp. He’d spent a few minutes in the small plastic pool that lived beside the couch, ostensibly watching the movie while he made sure not to dry out. As soon as he felt refreshed, though, nothing Dean could have said was going to dissuade him from pulling himself back up onto the couch and into Dean’s arms.

It wasn’t even slightly unpleasant, Dean discovered, to snuggle up like this with Castiel. Even when he was wet, his body temperature ran so much higher than Dean’s that he just felt warm and cozy to lay with.

“Enjoying the movie?” Dean asked, smirking.

“It’s very good,” Castiel said seriously, his gaze fixed on Dean’s face.

“Your back is to the screen.”

“I found something much better to watch.”

“Dork,” Dean pressed into Castiel’s forehead.

“Such a strange word,” Castiel murmured contentedly. “Did you know that in your language, it’s also the term for a whale’s penis?”

Dean laughed loudly. “Nope. Gotta say, did not know that.”

“A very odd term. Luckily, one that’s exclusive to only a few species—not my own, though structurally, our genitals are very similar.” Castiel wiggled onto his side, looking down at Dean as he lay on his back, and began idly trailing his fingers across the three-day stubble under Dean’s jaw.

“Structurally?” Dean asked, hoping he sounded a lot more nonchalant than he felt.

Castiel leaned in, pressing his lips to Dean’s cheekbone, their touch lingering as he said, “In terms of length and form. Not quite the same size, of course. Merfolk tend to be larger than humans, but even a relatively small male orca would have about four tons of weight on me.”

Dean’s brain was making that noise that he always heard in medical dramas when a character conveniently flatlined in the midst of conversation. He felt a bit like that was happening to him, too.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Your breathing rate is elevated.”

“Well,” Dean said slowly, looking at Cas pointedly, “I have a gorgeous merman touching me and talking about genitals. I’m not a clockwork boy, Cas—that’s gonna have an effect, y’know?”

“A positive effect?” Castiel asked, his smile going for “coy” but his voice landing somewhere in “slightly anxious.”

“Cas,” Dean said, reaching up to catch Castiel’s hand where his fingers rested on Dean’s jaw. “We should…talk.”

Castiel squinted, his eyes deep blue slits. “Who are you and where is Dean Winchester?”

Dean rolled his eyes, pushing Castiel’s hand gently away as he lifted his head from the pillow and wiggled upward a little. “Seriously, I mean it.”

“What would you have us talk about?” Castiel asked, his brow wrinkling in concern. The gills along his neck flared a little as he pulled in several deep breaths, and his shoulder fins subtly twitched.

No, no—that wasn’t what Dean wanted. He reached across and wrapped his arm over Castiel, pulling him back into his chest and tucking his face into Castiel’s neck. He pressed a soft kiss to the fluttering gills, and Castiel shivered against him.

“Cas, I want you,” Dean said, letting his voice rumble deep and throaty between them.

“I know that our—our physical forms are different, and I can’t change in the way that I used—" Castiel began, soft and quiet.

“I want you,” Dean said again, more firmly, pressing a hot kiss beneath Castiel’s ear. “Just as you are. But I’m _worried,_ okay? That’s all.”

Castiel was so close that Dean heard his tiny gulp as he swallowed a hitched breath, before pulling back to look Dean in the eyes again.

Dean drifted his fingers back up, resting them on Castiel’s cheeks. His thumb nudged at Castiel’s bottom lip as he said, “You know I’m still bad at this _talking about things_ shit, Cas. I wouldn’t do it if it didn’t matter. Your feelings matter a lot.”

“I’ve talked with Dr. Vallens about having sex with you,” Castiel said.

And…Dean was flatlining again. Possibly for real this time—he clutched at his own chest, just checking.

“You, uh—” Dean squeaked out after a moment.

“She’s a professional, Dean, she didn’t mind. Concerns about coupling are common in people with sexual trauma and rape survivors, she says, so I’m sure she’s spoken about it with many clients.”

“Mia’s ability to handle it really wasn’t my concern, there, Cas.”

“Well, I can handle it, too, I think.”

“It’s the ‘I think,’ that worries me. What if I do something and—”

“Dean,” Castiel said softly, taking his turn to clutch gently at Dean’s hands and hold them to his chest. “I trust you. I trust you to listen to me and let me decide what I’m ready for. I trust you let me set my own boundaries, which is what I’m doing now. And I trust you to stop, if I need to. Mia says that’s what is important. To be with someone who respects my needs.”

“Yeah, of course,” Dean said in a rush, his chest tight. “God, Cas—of course. None of that is even a question.”

“I know.”

For a moment they just breathed together, allowing the conversation to settle. Filling his lungs with Castiel’s salty, clean ocean scent, Dean slowly nodded, letting their foreheads loll together once more. “Okay,” he whispered.

“Okay?” Castiel echoed.

Dean nodded again. He leaned in, tilting his head just a fraction to line up their lips, hovering as their skin barely touched and caught. “You lead, I’ll follow,” he whispered.

“Deal,” Castiel agreed, before closing the breathless gap.

Kissing Castiel was still new—a few hours old, at most—but Dean had wanted to do it for so long that it already felt totally natural. Castiel’s plump lips were coaxing small pants from him like they were the key to unlocking Dean’s body, as well as his heart.

“Hey,” Dean murmured in between kisses, letting his hands roam down Castiel’s sides, feeling the gills between his ribs heave slowly. “This is kinda embarrassing, but…I don’t really know how you _work._ I actually asked Sam to do the biology research.”

Dean felt Castiel’s smirk against his lips.

“What a good brother he is. Luckily, I work much the same way you do,” Castiel said soothingly, his pointed, deft fingers pulling at Dean’s shirt. “Stand up and take this off, and I can show you.”

Dean pushed up off the back of the couch, swinging his legs over Castiel so that he could stand. He curled his fingers under the hem of the old shirt he’d thrown on when they came inside and peeled it back off with both hands. Tossing it aside, Dean felt a strange rush of nerves. It was ridiculous—Castiel had seen him shirtless many, many times. But he hadn’t had the implied permission to devour Dean with his gaze quite as openly as he was now.

After eyeing Dean’s chest appreciatively, Castiel shifted, looking like he was about to sit up.

“Wait,” Dean said. Smiling down at Castiel, not wanting him to worry, Dean leaned forward to scoop his arms beneath his shoulders and tail. “Call me a romantic, but I think the bed is a better venue for this.”

Castiel reached one arm around Dean’s neck to steady himself. As Dean walked, he busied himself with nuzzling into the side of Dean’s face, his other hand trailing softly across Dean’s chest. He explored, the pads of his fingers caressing Dean’s skin and skimming over his nipples.

Grinning, Dean let out a small sound of approval. “Yeah, those are sensitive. Good touches encouraged.”

“Noted,” Castiel said solemnly, his wandering hands still busy.

The bedroom of the cabin was truly tiny. It had a twin bed, piled with pillows and a worn, cozy patchwork quilt, and a single pine nightstand. Dean’s duffle bag was thrown against the wall under the window, and that was it.

Dean lowered Castiel down to the bed slowly, kissing him as he sunk into the pillows. Isolated as they were, Dean stepped up to the window and pulled the thin brown curtains wide, before dropping his jeans onto the hardwood floor.

He turned, and something in him stuttered at the sight on the bed.

Castiel reclined back on the mattress, his broad shoulders highlighted by the way his arms stretched out either side of him. Propped up on the pile of pillows, his gaze rested unerringly on Dean as he stood in his boxer briefs, taking him in. The color of Castiel’s tail looked more blue than usual; the way the sun was struggling to break through the rain clouds was sending intermittent shafts of light through the window that made his scales shine, holographic and dazzling.

“You’re beautiful,” Dean breathed out, kneeling onto the edge of the bed.

To Dean’s surprise, Castiel blushed deeply, crimson red in his cheeks and neck.

“What?” Dean asked, grinning. “Never heard that before?”

“I’ve never heard it from _you_ before,” Castiel explained, smiling softly.

Dean knee-walked his way up the bed, straddling Castiel’s tail. When he got to his hips, Dean reached out, spreading his fingers over Castiel’s abs the way he’d wanted to for months. In contrast to his firm, slick scales, Castiel’s skin was soft and warm, and Dean wanted to press his lips to every inch of it.

Stroking upwards across Castiel’s chest to his ribs, Dean cradled his face to kiss him once more.

Immediately, even as their lips met, Dean recognized something wrong; Castel shifted beneath him, his body curling down into the mattress, away from Dean.

As he pulled back, Castiel’s eyes widened with guilt, or possibly shame, or some other emotion that Dean knew Castiel deserved better than to experience.

Okay. Leaning over him, not good.

Dean moved his hip to the side, stretching out alongside Castiel, his hands sliding back to Castiel’s jaw before he could begin to apologize, or protest, or whatever it was that was forming on his pillowy lips.

“Hey,” Dean said quietly. “Why don’t we try it this way, instead?”

Moving one hand down to Castiel’s hip, he encouraged him up and over, resting on Dean instead, his tail between Dean’s legs. On top; in control.

That seemed to work a lot better. Castiel relaxed again, and they were quickly wrapped back in each other, their lips sliding and catching. Dean knew full well that Castiel had a mouth full of knife-like teeth, but he was so careful with them—even as their kisses grew deeper, breathier, more passionate—that Dean almost forgot about them entirely. All he could focus on was the weight of Castiel between his thighs, the salty taste of him, and the shifting of his hands as they mapped Dean’s skin.

Dean became more and more aware of the fabric of his boxers shifting over his cock, a soft throbbing making itself known as his body reacted more and more to the gorgeous, hot merman above him.

He could have got off just like that, just with Castiel pressed up to him, praising Dean’s mouth with his tongue, moving against him.

Castiel didn’t seem to have that in mind, though. He rolled his hips into Dean’s, letting out a shuddering breath that carried a small moan, a sound that lit Dean up inside. To hear that Castiel was enjoying this, their bodies so close—and to hear it in a helpless sound, rather than carefully reassuring words—did more for his arousal than even the pressure at his groin.

“Fuck,” Dean murmured into the warm air between their lips. “That sounded so hot— _you’re_ so hot, you could make me come just like this, I swear.”

Castiel pulled back slowly, his eyes bright and hungry as they skimmed down Dean’s body. He held his lower lip, biting at it softly and pulling it between his pointy teeth, gentle but telling. “That’s pleasing to hear, but it’d certainly be a waste. I like the first part of your sentence better.”

“Fuck?” said Dean hopefully.

Castiel’s eyes darkened a little further, becoming a deeper ocean. “Yes…if you can take me.”

Dean’s eyes roved up and down Castiel’s body, wondering if he really _could_ …who knew what a mermaid was packing? “Why don’t we find out?”

Castiel had both of his hands on Dean’s thighs, his tail curled so that their pelvises were only inches from each other. Dean’s cock strained, protesting, against the light gray fabric of his underwear. Castiel’s eyes lingered on it for a moment, taking in the damp spot near Dean’s tip, before he slowly slid his hands up to Dean’s knees and straightened slightly.

As Castiel moved one hand gradually down his own stomach, movement drew Dean’s eyes to the scales that covered the front of Castiel’s hips, right where his crotch would be, if he had such a thing.

There was a parting in the scales that Dean was entirely certain had _not_ been there before.

Mesmerized, Dean watched as Castiel’s hand approached the slit-like gap in his body, leading Dean’s gaze to it.

What slid out from within was like no cock Dean had ever seen.

Thicker at the base and tapering to a tip, Castiel’s dick was a little pinker than the rest of his skin, sinuously slipping out of the opening where it had been concealed and snaking through the air like a quivering, eager, octopus arm.

Fuck, it was…it was quite like a tentacle, actually. A really _large_ tentacle, holy shit.

Castiel really _was_ packing.

Mouth dry and heartbeat in his ears, Dean knew that he was staring. But what else could he do? Sam wasn’t kidding when he made fun of Dean for having a tentacle thing, it’d been a lifelong fantasy, ever since he’d stumbled across the concept of tentacle porn as a teenger. A _fantasy._ Not real. Until…well, it kind of was. Technically, there were no suckers or anything here, so it wasn’t one...but fuck, he’d take it. One thing Dean had never been was fussy when he liked someone.

Dean let out a slow, measured huff of air from his lips.

The movement of Castiel’s head finally snapped Dean’s gaze back up. Shit—Castiel was pink, his head ducked down, his hands hovering uncertainly an inch above Dean’s knees. He wasn’t looking at Dean anymore, an awkward tilt to the tense set of his shoulders.

Staring. Not the same as communicating his thoughts, Dean realized.

Castiel interrupted Dean’s moistening of his lips with, “It’s not fully visible.”

Once the odd statement was out, Castiel looked back up, his cheekbones highlighted with a blush as he carried on stumbling out words, talking fast and a little loud.

“A lot of it is actually inside my body, you see. Humans have everything dangling outside, but that’s not really practical in the sea. We don’t exactly lay on beds, either, in this form—so that’s why it’s longer, uh, why it can, well, move the way it does, independent of—”

Oh, fuck. Dean had made him nervous. “Cas,” Dean interrupted firmly, sitting right up with his knees still bent, bringing his hands to Castiel’s face like the long, thick dick between them wasn’t even there. “Cas.”

Castiel met his gaze, his posture entirely made of apprehension.

Dean kissed him, soft and sweet, before grinning against his lips. “Just go slow when you put that in me, okay?”

Before Castiel could respond, Dean dragged his lips across Castiel’s cheek and up to the bolt of his jaw, hot breath rebounding back from the curve of Castiel’s ear as Dean whispered, “Real slow…I want to feel every inch.”

Castiel sucked in a sharp, audible breath. “You—”

“Yes. God, Cas—yes, please, fuck.”

Dean’s shoulder blades hit the pile of pillows on the old twin bed with a dull _thud,_ the mattress squeaking out a loud groan that matched Dean’s own. Castiel’s hands were hot, and keen, and _everywhere,_ and his voice practically vibrated as he hovered a breath away from Dean’s lips.

“Out of the water I’ll need some—some kind of—”

“Yeah—” Dean twisted away, his upper body rolling half-off the bed in his rush to claw downward and swipe at the edge of his duffle bag in order to drag it across the floor.

He’d come prepared—not so much ‘hopeful,’ as ‘not going to screw up even the tiniest chance.’

Lube retrieved with a shaking hand, Dean flipped open the purple cap and settled back onto the bedding. He untangled his legs from around Castiel, awkwardly flinging his underwear off the bed. They hit the windowpane with a soft _thwap_ before sliding down the floorboards, out of sight. 

Castiel made a soft noise of approval as he gazed down at Dean’s exposed body—Dean may have preened a little. What kinda guy didn’t like to know he had a pretty cock, after all?

Dean settled back into place, wrapping his legs around Castiel’s scaled bulk and pulling him closer. Castiel’s cock twitched unlike anything human could—a deliberate, waving motion, its oozing tip curling through the air. Castiel’s eyes were already back on his like magnets as Dean asked, “Can I?”

Castiel’s gaze flicked between the open tube in Dean’s hand and himself, nodding silently.

Dean took a breath, trying to temper his growing excitement—a twinging in his chest, a clenching in his stomach, and a throbbing his own hard cock—with caution and good sense, reminding himself to go slow, to let Castiel lead, to take his time with his touches.

He reached out with a dry hand first, just wanting to know how it felt.

Sitting back between Dean’s knees, his beautiful blue monofin flared out across the mattress like silken cloth next to Dean’s feet, Castiel watched. He placed his hands on Dean’s hips, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

Beneath Dean’s fingers, Castiel’s cock felt like something entirely new, and yet not so dissimilar to everything Dean was used to. It was firm and hot, the muscles of its length solid beneath the slight slip of warm skin. The way that it moved in Dean’s hand as he gently tightened his grip was different; sinuously shifting with every small movement that Castiel made, the thin tip curled up around Dean’s wrist, an entirely new sensation.

“This okay?” Dean asked, surprised at how husky his own voice had become.

Castiel’s responding nod was small and jerky, a series of tiny nods building up fast. “Yes—yes, please. I’m fine, Dean. I want this, I promise. I want you.”

The flavored lube felt pleasantly cool against Dean’s palm in comparison to the heat of Castiel’s heavy, fat cock. Both hands gleaming wetly in the light from the window, Dean wrapped his fingers back around Castiel. Using two hands he worked slowly up the length of him, traveling up from the base in a twisting motion, each hand a different direction as he watched Castiel’s shoulders shudder and his jaw hang loose.

“You like that?” Dean asked, before dipping his head down, encouraged by Castiel’s gasping nods. The pinkish, tentacle-like mer-cock wdas long, but that only made it easier for Dean to reach as he tentatively stuck out his tongue, running it up the last few inches of firm flesh with a little _flick_. He wanted to know everything—wanted to know how Castiel tasted.

Salty, of course, was the answer, a deep ocean taste beneath the synthetic strawberry of the lube.

Castiel’s head flew back at the sensation of Dean’s tongue caressing his tip, and he sang out a soft, breathy note.

Dean had no idea what the note was or what it meant, but from the way Castiel’s shoulder fins shot upward like wings about to take flight, Dean took it to be a positive sound.

Encouraged, Dean slid the slim end of Castiel’s cock onto his tongue, carefully dipping down, his lips stretching wider and wider as it got thicker and deeper. Dean didn’t slack off with his hands, working his fists in opposite directions as he doubled-up on Castiel’s length, stimulating as much of it as he could manage in one go.

Castiel groaned when Dean sucked hard, coming back off with a pop. He looked up at Castiel from beneath his eyelashes.

“Seems like plenty of things work just the same, no matter the species,” Dean commented.

One large hand came to the back of Dean’s head, and then a smooth, silky tip of flesh _wiggled_ against Dean’s lips and pushed itself easily back inside.

“Uh—Fuck, yes,” Dean mumbled around the intrusion, jutting his jaw forward to open up his throat and take as much of Castiel as he could. It had been a long, long time since he’d done this, but it wasn’t something he’d forgotten.

Dean’s eyes watered as Castiel’s cock moved within his mouth and pressed into his soft palette, slipping its way into his throat with a rolling, fucking rhythm. Dean focused on breathing through his nose, on relaxing his jaw, on sucking his way through his automatic gag reflex at the sheer size of what was entering him.

_“Oh,_ Dean—” Castiel gasped out helplessly, and it was immediately all worth it.

Dean’s jaw ached quickly, though, and there was only so much abuse his throat could take before the discomfort overpowered the eroticism off it. Pulling back caused Castiel to shudder above him, clinging to Dean’s shoulders longingly as he curled forward to catch Dean’s lips with his own again.

“So,” Dean croaked breathlessly against Castiel’s mouth, “wanna put that somewhere else?”

Dark eyed—like the ocean at night, a color Dean had gazed out over enough to be intimately familiar with—Castiel looked wrecked, but coherent enough to give a slow nod.

“I would like that very much. I’ll be gentle.”

Normally, Dean might have insisted that a partner needed to be no such thing; he was no blushing virgin, and he’d had more vibrators and dildos delivered to the bunker than Sam ever needed to know about. (Some of them even of the tentacle variety…) But this? The sheer size of Castiel, never mind the newness of the whole situation, had Dean pausing. He _wanted_ it rough and hard and deep—fuck, did he ever. He wanted everything Castiel had to offer, and by his age, Dean knew what he liked.

But he wasn’t a dumbass, either. And that was one hell of a cock.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, reaching to add more lube to his own fingers before he slid them down between his legs. He lay down on the pillows, spreading his legs further and pulling up his knees, Castiel still between his feet. “Just go slow, okay?”

Castiel made a breathless sound of agreement, his eyes locked on Dean’s fingers as he easily sunk two into himself. Then quickly three.

“More,” Castiel rasped.

Dean raised an eyebrow, smiling, watching as Castiel took himself in hand while he observed. The scales at his hips shone with sunlight and lube, and Dean couldn’t resist reaching out to touch them with his other hand, pressing the pads of his fingers into the dark, shining pattern.

“I’m quite wide at the base,” Castiel pointed out matter-of-factly. “I know well that a human can take it, but I want you to be comfortable. So—more. Four fingers, at least.”

Smiling his appreciation, Dean squeezed Castiel’s hip gently. Castiel seemed to like to be touched by Dean, to be constantly close, his other hand coming up to cover Dean’s. Their fingers linked, and they stayed like that while Dean worked himself further open, pushing past the intense burn to work a fourth finger into himself, twisting and turning his hand, just a little further, just a little deeper.

Castiel’s breathing was loud, musical pants falling from his lips as Dean’s chin lolled down to his chest, moaning. The old patchwork quilt beneath his back was already damp with sweat and lube, and Castiel wasn’t even inside him yet—the thought made Dean gasp and bite down on his lip.

Thick-fingered, heavy hands gripped Dean’s thighs under the back of his knees, pushing his legs to his ribs, admiring the open view. Dean let out a moan—being manhandled by someone as strong as Castiel was fucking _hot_ , and he’d left his shame back in his twenties along with his internalized homophobia and penchant for leather jackets.

The first press of Castiel’s cock into him—once Dean had wiped his fingers on the bedding and held onto Castiel’s muscled biceps like a lifeline—made Dean cry out, a shaky drip of precum oozing from his slit, a shiver running through his muscles.

“Holy _fuck_ , Cas! Fuck—fuck that feels so good,” he howled, letting go of one of Castiel’s arms only to grab a handful of the quilt and twist it.

Castiel couldn’t answer beyond a choked-out grunt, but his nodding and wide eyes as he slid into Dean were reply enough. He slipped in easily to start with, the tapered tip of him hot and slick and slim, the flexibility making Dean twitch around him; it felt like he was being penetrated with a warm, swirling tongue, deeper within than any similar sensation could usually go. But then, as Castiel pushed forward, filling Dean’s gaping hole, the widening of his cock _pushed_ against Dean’s nerves, making him whimper.

_Oh God—Oh—Oh God…_ The pressure on Dean’s prostate was like nothing he’d ever felt, and he writhed around helplessly among the pillows as Castiel began to find his footing, began to rotate his hips, began to thrust in earnest.

The mattress shrieked out a creaking, desperate tune that matched the ratcheting up of Dean’s heartbeat.

Above Dean, Castiel’s tiny grunts built into a throbbing song, and all Dean could do was hold on to Castiel’s hips and brace his feet against the bed. Castiel’s cock within him _moved_ like no human equivalent ever could, and Dean had never been so hard and desperate in his life.

This was his fantasy, as near as could be—the thing that didn’t exist that he’d closed his eyes and pictured for years, the harmless fetish that filled many a lonely night in a motel or kept him company in the cold, empty bunker.

But this was _real,_ and it was _Cas,_ and Dean’s body was hurtling him towards the finish line of a race he’d barely had time to realize he was in.

Dean was babbling out loud, sharing all his thoughts with Castiel, broken with intermittent moans and shakes. Castiel had his head down, his face buried in the side of Dean’s neck, bent over him. As Castiel pushed a little more on each thrust, stretching Dean out further, further, _further_ , Dean could feel Castiel’s tail thrashing behind him, his translucent blue tailfin sweeping up off the bed like a flag signaling _close, close, closer…_

Castiel’s face was flushed, his chest heaving; the sight above Dean could rival any beautiful painting, any breath-stealing sonnet, or any holy stained-glass window in any chapel or church Dean could have worshipped at. Pressure building in his body, Dean reached up to thread his fingers into the sweat-curled hair at the back of Castiel’s neck, pulling his ear down close to Dean’s lips.

“Are you gonna come, Cas?”

“Yes—soon,” Castiel said. He panted the words more than spoke them, his voice strained and hurried and exquisite. He had one hand planted firmly above Dean’s shoulder, giving him the leverage to thrust, and the other reached down between them, finally— _finally_ —wrapping around Dean’s cock.

Castiel’s hand was efficient, skilled in a way that Dean didn’t want to think about. He just wanted to lose himself in this, instead—this all-encompassing feeling of _fullness,_ the pleasure just enough to outweigh the burn and shove Dean right to the edge of the cliff he’d been climbing.

“Cas—Cas,” Dean panted into the side of Castiel’s face.

“Dean!” Castiel’s cry became a crystal-clear note, then a soft, falling whimper that ended between Dean’s lips in a sloppy, trembling kiss. Dean could feel Castiel filling him, his huge cock stiffening and throbbing in a way that felt utterly strange and entirely awesome—Dean’s orgasm smacked into him so hard it knocked the breath from his lungs, his muscles tightening like he was on a cresting rollercoaster.

Splashes of his own warmth spurted across Dean’s stomach and ribs, and the hot, liquid sensation deep within his ass carried on…and on. Finally, his arm shaking against Dean’s shoulder, Castiel slowly pulled out, his sinuous cock slithering wetly over Dean’s prostate with one last _flick._

Oversensitive, Dean squirmed and gasped. He still had his hand at the back of Castiel’s neck, gripping tightly—he released the pressure, his aching knuckles glad of the relief. Soothing his fingers down across Castiel’s nape, he pressed his lips up into Castiel’s jaw.

“You good?” Dean whispered, registering the way Castiel’s muscles were vibrating like the final note on a string. He heard the pillows rustle with Castiel’s nod against the side of his face.

Castiel shifted, uncurling, straightening up from where he’d been over Dean the whole time. He looked down, and Dean felt a thick, pointed thumb press at his stretched, undoubtedly puffy, rim.

Dean hissed sharply but couldn’t hate the sensation. He could feel Castiel’s massive load trickling out of him in a stream, pooling on the bed between his legs. Castiel looked fascinated by it, hungry, as if just the sight of Dean spilling his still-warm seed between them was enough to have him ready to go all over again. His smile was raw, almost animalistic—Dean was entirely convinced there was some kind of breeding instinct going on here.

Shit out of luck on that front. But still, hot. 

Castiel ran his fingers through the mess; Dean felt him push some of it back in. His back arched up off the bed, a yell building in the back of his throat—but Castiel soothed him with a kiss, and his hands moved away to Dean’s hips.

After a laughing, lighthearted shuffle where they fought over who had to lie in the wet spot, they were in each other’s arms. Floppy and content, they gazed at each other in a way that Dean could only describe as _sappy as fuck_ , and that he did his best to tell himself he didn’t like, all whilst simultaneously cataloging the way the light was falling on Castiel’s face.

“Was that okay?” Dean asked, bringing his hand up to rest on Castiel’s cheek, tugging him a little closer. He wrapped one leg up over Castiel’s tail, entwining them.

Smiling—wide and gummy in the way that made Dean’s heart clench—Castiel shuffled a little closer, careless of the cooling mess on their skin, and took Dean’s hand from his cheek. He turned it, pressing a long kiss into Dean’s palm, his eyelids fluttering shut as he whispered, “I love you—so much. Thank you.”

“Thank you?” Dean asked, grinning. “Don’t gotta thank me for any of that, I promise you.”

Castiel’s eyes opened enough to glare. “For letting me do that the way I needed to,” Castiel said.

“Any time,” Dean said. “Like…seriously. That was awesome. And if that’s you being gentle, hell, sign me up for rough, buddy. We’re going to have a very good time.”

They kissed, soft and sweet in contrast to the way their bodies were still mostly hard, and breathed together on the bed for a long moment.

“I’m glad that you liked it,” Castiel said quietly into the comfortable near-silence, the intimate hush of the room broken only by the last-ditch efforts of the sunny storm pattering on the window glass. He rolled onto his back, and Dean noticed that his cock was tucked away again, the slit where it had emerged not even visible amongst the scales. Turning his head back toward Dean, Castiel added, “I’m glad that even though we’re different, we can still have this.”

Dean reached out and squeezed Castiel’s fingers. “Me, too. It’s you and me, now, Cas. We’ll make it work.”

Castiel nodded, slow and lazy, and Dean could see the same tiredness pulling at Castiel that he was starting to feel.

“Hey,” Dean said, nudging Castiel’s shoulder lightly. “How about you go soak in your pool for a few minutes, and I’ll sort out these sheets, given that you left like a gallon of cum all over them. Then we can put another movie on and sleep our way through it.”

A long post-coital snuggle would do them both good, in Dean’s opinion. And he wanted time to talk to Castiel, make sure he felt okay about everything afterwards, speak more about what would help him, where his boundaries were. Dean wasn’t fool enough to think that because they’d had sex once, issues couldn’t crop up months, or even years, down the line.

_Years._ Dean only thought it, didn’t even say it, but somehow his chest warmed and he wanted to turn his face into the pillow. Castiel’s voice broke through Dean’s daydreaming before it could go too much further, thankfully.

“It’s not a whole gallon of cum. Though it is more efficient for breeding to ejaculate heavily,” Castiel said, entirely deadpan as he rolled, lowering his tail from the bed. “More chances means more fertilized eggs.”

“Yeah, it’s also really hot,” Dean pointed out bluntly. He sat up and swung his bare legs over the side of the mattress, throwing a wink over his shoulder at Castiel. “Or at least you seemed to think so when it was in me, hmm? We’ll be revisiting that…I want to see your expression when I swallow it all, for one thing.”

Castiel blinked slowly, a fiery red flush crawling up his neck. “I—uh—I, yes, uhm, that would be…nice,” he said weakly. “I’ll admit, the instinct to, uh, well. Yes.”

“Thought so,” Dean replied, smirking wickedly.

Shaking his head in amusement, Castiel pulled himself out into the hallway to go soak, and Dean turned his attention to stripping the bed before going to wash himself off.

As he pulled back the quilt and shook it out, several dark, glossy scales fell onto the wrinkled sheet.

Dean blinked and slowly reached out, skimming his fingers across the bedding to gather them until they formed a tiny pile. Then he used his other hand to flick them into the curve of his palm, scooping them up. They rested darkly against his skin, a rainbow shimmer highlighting their edges.

Biting his lip, Dean regarded them for a long moment.

Then he quietly grabbed his jeans from the floor and slipped them into his back pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** SMUT SUMMARY ***
> 
> After some _actual communication_ about intimacy and Castiel trusting Dean to be respectful and wholly different to what he was used to (and the revelation that Castiel has spoken to Mia specifically about 'coupling issues' after trauma), Castiel and Dean (rather sweetly, all things considered) make love at the cabin. Afterward, while Castiel is taking a soak in his tub and Dean is tidying up the bed, he notices that Castiel shed some scales during their activities. Dean picks them up and considers them for a moment, before ultimately pocketing them.
> 
> *************************
> 
> Well, folks... what do we think Dean is going to do with those scales? ;)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you all have a wonderful holiday season, however or whatever you celebrate. My love and good wishes are winging through the air to ya, wherever you are.
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> P.S. If you would like updates, please [subscribe!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile) You can also follow me on my social media, over on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MalMuses), [Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/), and [Instagram.](https://www.instagram.com/mal_muses/?hl=en%22)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! It's a few days past, but this is my first post of 2021 so it felt right to say. I have so many plans and goals and hopes for 2021, I'm determined to make it a better year than 2020 by pure positivity alone. My first goal is to finish posting this fic for you! Not too much longer to go, and then I'll be sharing my Deaf Dean fic that some of you are so kindly excited for!
> 
> Back to mermen though, for now - time to see what Dean is up to with those scales!
> 
> The fantastic [lizleeships](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/?hl=en) has produced such a cool picture for this chapter! I hope you like it as much as I do, she really has a magical way of reaching into my brain and pulling out things, then making them even better! Please do go and give her some love on her socials: lizleeships on Instagram, Tumblr, and Twitter.
> 
> Thanks as always to all my trashcan girls for their endless support, and to EllenOfOz and captainhaterade for beta help.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!
> 
> \- Mal <3

The legs of the map table in the war room _screeched_ awfully as Dean and Sam pushed in unison, shunting it across the floor, against the far wall. Sam grimaced at the noise before grabbing a long-handled broom to sweep the center of the floor. Following his lead, Dean took the second broom from where they’d been propped in the corner.

“We supposed to sweep in a specific direction?” Dean asked.

“Deosil,” Sam said, his eyes on the floor as he started swishing his broom around.

“English?”

“That _is_ English—clockwise. Clockwise to draw things _to_ you, not send them away.”

“As you say, Sabrina.”

“Don’t insult me, we’re doing this for you, remember.”

“That’s not totally true,” Dean said as he very carefully swept in a circle, keeping time with Sam. “You know you’d do this ritual to try and help out Cas even if it wasn’t for me, because he’s your friend.”

Sam muttered something under his breath before saying, “Still no need to call me that.”

“Plenty of other famous witches to choose from.”

“Shut up and pass me the chalk, Dean.”

Dean stayed quiet as Sam drew out an intricate, complicated circle of weaving shapes and skull-like sigils on the floor. Despite the number of times he’d practiced on paper, it took him nearly half an hour. Dean stood outside the circle, entranced. Once Sam was almost done, Dean moved over to the side and picked up a glass of water from the tray they’d prepared, doing exactly what Sam had told him.

Brother teasing aside, he really _didn’t_ want to mess this up.

Sam’s back cracked as he straightened up, and he rolled his shoulders awkwardly as he nodded to Dean. “Alright, that’s it. Go ahead.”

“Throw it?”

“Just throw it,” Sam reassured him, nodding again.

Dean turned back to the perfect chalk circle, taking one last look at all its wave-like lines and delicate shading, before he sucked in a deep breath and whipped his arm forward.

The water flew from the glass, right into the middle of the circle.

It never hit the floor.

“Damn, Hermione,” Dean whispered.

Suspended, the water hovered two inches or so above the chalk, and began to spread and swirl, its volume increasing exponentially from what had been held in the simple beer glass.

With a _woosh_ , a tiny cyclone of water whirled around in front of them, spiraling up toward the ceiling in a cylinder and making gurgling sounds like a spout at sea.

Dean gulped hard—he’d never been super-comfortable with the magic stuff. Yeah, it got things done, but there was usually a cost, a cost that he was never all that comfortable paying. But Sam was better at this kinda thing than he was, and he promised Dean that this would be fine.

It wasn’t a big deal, he said.

They’d summon one of Castiel’s ancestors using his scales, he said.

Ask a few questions.

Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

Reflexively, Dean reached up to touch his shirt pocket and pat it, checking on the mer scales within. He could feel the outline of their thin, sharp edges through the cotton of his shirt, and it set his mind at rest. At least a little.

It had taken him the better part of the weekend to work out how to approach Castiel about the scales. 

What if Castiel got his hopes up about getting an amulet, and then Dean couldn’t get him one? What if Castiel didn’t want Dean to have his scales, and they had to go back to the drawing board again? Something in Dean had recoiled and cringed as he’d remembered the first scales he’d taken from Castiel; how _obligated_ he’d been, how powerless Castiel had been to really refuse, whether Dean had fully understood that at the time or not. Luckily, as he did with so many things, Castiel had entirely surprised Dean when he’d brought the scales out from his pocket and explained where he’d found them.

“You should take those back to the bunker,” he’d said immediately, with a shrugging nonchalance that had settled many of Dean’s worries. “I shed plenty, and I have no purpose for them. I’m sure you and Sam can find magical uses, so you may as well build up a stash.”

Okay, so Dean probably should have told Castiel about the spell then, but he was still dead set on _not_ getting his hopes up. He had his guilt removed about taking the scales, and if Cas didn’t care what he used them for...then so be it. Dean could tell him later, if it all worked out.

As far as communication went...Dean was a work in progress.

Seriously. Mia had gotten him repeating that in the goddamned mirror every morning this week. Apparently, self-affirmation could help mitigate stress.

Feeling the weight of the scales in his pocket once more, Dean could certainly think of one thing that would help make him a _lot_ less stressed: having this complicated, witchy ritual over and done with. Magic gave him the heebie-jeebies. 

Right. The ritual. Shaking away his thoughts, Dean refocused on Sam.

With his hands up and his palms out, Sam approached the edge of the swirling circle. Dean wasn’t even sure what language Sam was speaking—singing?—though he couldn’t help but wonder if they were words that Castiel would understand.

Rhythmic and lilting, Sam recited a short, melodic passage three times in succession, before looking back over at Dean and jerking his head toward the whirling water. “Now,” he said. “The scales.”

Dean pulled the three scales from his shirt pocket. They were thin and almost delicate, but hard and flexible. After finding a couple of them in the sheets after he and Castiel had sex for the first time, Dean had swiftly, quietly called Sam and asked him how many they needed for the spell Sam had mentioned back at the Irma Hotel in Wyoming. Just two or three were enough, Sam had said. Dark and shimmering, the scales were starkly beautiful against Dean’s calloused, nervous fingers as he reached out toward the water.

At Sam’s encouraging nod, he threw them in.

With a single, loud command from Sam, the water stopped: suddenly silent, entirely crystalline, and immobile.

They waited.

After a moment, Sam raised his voice again, calling out something Dean couldn’t comprehend.

There was a sound like ice cracking on a winter’s night—and then they weren’t alone.

The mer in the circle, though, was not at _all_ what Dean expected.

When Sam said, “summon Castiel’s ancestors,” Dean had pictured someone, well, old. The merman that squinted dangerously at them from within the glass-like water looked no older than Castiel, his skin—the large, tanned expanse of it that was on display—unwrinkled and smooth.

Whereas Castiel’s tail was dark like the depths, this mer had scales like dark sand with golden flecks, deepening in color the closer they got to his hips. His hair was long and dark blonde, floating around him in the water like he was in a commercial for the stupid shampoo Sam used to keep his locks luscious. He was clean-shaven, bare-chested, and wore a gold chain around his neck—bearing, Dean noticed immediately, a glass amulet which glowed dully and swirled as he breathed.

“Humans,” he said, his voice much higher than Castiel’s; though still deep enough, Dean supposed. He didn’t sound pleased.

Sam held up both hands, backing away, and left Dean to it.

“Hey,” Dean said, awkwardly stepping forward. “I’m Dean, Dean Winchester.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me, kid?” The merman flicked his hair back like a Pantene model. It really _was_ luscious, Dean was forced to admit.

“I, uh—are you one of Castiel’s ancestors?” Dean asked, before immediately internally groaning. What a dumb question. If he was Castiel’s ancestor, he’d likely died long before Castiel was born. Or hatched. Or however that worked. He probably didn’t even know who Castiel was.

The merman merely raised one blond eyebrow, gazing right back at Dean with a strange air of amusement. “Ancestor?” he repeated slowly.

Dean parted his lips to explain, but the merman dropped his gaze to the floor and began examining the circle closely.

“Ahh,” he said knowingly. He pointed to a series of intelligible wiggly lines to Dean’s left, close to Sam’s feet. “Over there. You dicked it up, boys. Only a bit, though. That’s not ‘ancestor’, that’s just ‘relative.’”

“God damn it,” Sam hissed beneath his breath.

“Ahh, come on,” the merman consoled, giving Sam a grin that showed every one of his alarmingly pointy teeth. “It’s close enough, kiddo. You’re just lucky you got me and not one of the other dickbags.”

“And you are?” Sam asked.

“Gabriel—they call me Gabriel.”

“And—just to clarify here—you are _not_ one of Cas’ ancestors?” Dean asked.

Gabriel laughed again, his monofin flicking in time with his chuckles. “How old do you think I am? Wait—don’t answer that. I’m a member of Castiel’s shoal. We are brothers. Or we were.”

“Were?” Dean asked.

“He fraternized with humans, showed them his true form. We heard it, heard his songs.”

Anger rising up inside his chest, Dean stepped forward sharply, only to run into Sam’s arm holding him back. “Don’t you mean his _screams?_ The times he sang, pleading, begging you assholes to help him?”

Gabriel’s eyes flicked away guiltily, taking in the war room with a detached curiosity instead of answering.

“Yeah,” Dean continued, “Cas told me all about that. About how not a single one of you even replied to him, didn’t even say goodbye or offer him any comfort. You knew—you knew what was happening to him!”

Gabriel’s voice was cold, hard, and dangerous as he looked back at Dean, but down in his strange, whiskey colored eyes, Dean could see more—could see guilt, and sorrow. “Some of us wanted to, human. But there are rules.”

“Whose?”

Gabriel blinked.

“Whose rules?” Dean repeated, hissing his words out through gritted teeth. “You called yourself _family._ But you just abandoned him.”

“My father does not allow dissent,” Gabriel intoned solemnly. “I’m sorry for what Castiel went through. But any of us that had tried to respond would have been pushed out, too, would have been shunned. We wouldn’t have been accepted as part of the family anymore.”

“Then you should have been shunned!” Dean shouted, feeling heat in his face and fists. “You never deserved to be his family in the first place!”

Gabriel watched him with impassive eyes.

“Dean,” Sam said, tugging on Dean’s arm, pulling him back. “This isn’t going to help.”

Dean shrugged off Sam’s arm forcefully. “Yeah. Whatever.”

“Why have you summoned me here?” Gabriel asked, turning his eyes to Sam. “There must be a reason.”

Sam nodded, flicking his eyes across to Dean before he answered. “Castiel is our friend. My brother freed him from captivity and released him, but he still can’t be who he was.”

“His amulet was destroyed,” Gabriel said.

Dean couldn’t decide if the douchebag knew or if he was guessing. Either seemed possible.

“Yes,” said Sam. “Look, I know you don’t have any reason to help us. But he was your brother once—”

“Even if you find an amulet, it takes tremendous power to light one back up again. It won’t bind to his magic if it’s inert.”

“I have to try,” Dean said. All of the anger drained out of him, and he was ready to get down on his knees and beg if it would’ve helped. “Please. I have to try.”

Gabriel fixed Dean with a gaze so intense that he couldn’t look away—he wanted to, he wanted to run from the room and the strange power of this _creature_ that was barely contained before him.

It was a look that made Gabriel seem much, much less human than Castiel did.

Pinned to the spot, Dean let Gabriel examine him, feeling like his very soul was trapped in a searchlight.

“Yes,” Gabriel said after a moment, a small, smirking smile curling up one corner of his lip into a crooked, amused expression once more. “You can try. I think… I think you might even have it in you.”

“So, you’ll help us?” Sam asked.

“No,” Gabriel said, before pointing to Dean. “But I will give him a clue. I’ve walked on the land many times, hidden among men. I’ve heard things, rumors.”

Holding his breath, Dean raised both his eyebrows in question.

“There’s a place on the coast of the U.S.—not entirely clear which state, but southward somewhere? There’s a weird little museum-kinda-thing there. Real kooky place. They have what they claim is the body of a mermaid on display.”

Sam frowned. “Is it real?”

Gabriel nodded. “’Bout the only one in the country that is.”

“How does that help us?” Dean asked, feeling like his whole body was on pause.

“She’s displayed with all her effects. A purse, hair combs…jewelry.”

 _“Oh,”_ Dean breathed out, relief crashing into his chest hard.

“Yeah, you on board now, Dean-o?” Gabriel smirked, before looking back at Sam. “Now, that’s enough. Release me, before I make you.”

Dean and Sam exchanged a look, communicating silently.

“You can’t tell us how to power the amulet again, once we have it?” Sam asked hopefully.

“Can’t, won’t, something like that. Now let me go,” Gabriel said, his voice vibrating eerily through the water. A spark of gold simmered in his eyes and a strange electric buzz filled the room.

“Okay, okay,” Sam said quickly, scrambling over to the pushed-aside war room table, where a thick spell tome lay open and ready. He quickly began chanting the words meant to send Gabriel back to wherever he’d been pulled from.

Dean stayed in place; his eyes locked with Gabriel’s.

As the water around Gabriel began to slowly thicken and darken to blue once more, Dean licked his lips and gave Gabriel a small nod.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” he said, before fading from sight in a swirl of bubbles.

As much as Dean wanted to dive straight into Baby and head off on an amulet hunt, it wasn’t quite that simple. As Sam pointed out, they had to find the “weird little museum” place first, and it turned out that America had a _lot_ of strange, sketchy collections of oddities near its coasts.

Sam had put up with Dean’s help (and hovering) for a couple of days before he shooed him off on a quickie ghost case. From there, he told him, he might as well head up to North Cove for his scheduled weekend with Castiel. The fact that Sam thought he could find the place faster _without_ Dean’s help should probably have been mildly offensive, but Dean was too happy about getting a green light to skip the research to complain.

So, by Saturday evening, he’d finally put the amulet out of his mind for a while and was enjoying his downtime with Cas, fins and all.

“What’s the deal with waiting to go down to the beach, anyway?” Dean gathered up his empty beer bottles, as well as the one that Castiel had slowly sipped his way through after dinner, before heading across the main cabin living area to the kitchen.

Castiel didn’t need to eat human foods, or drink; mer ate much less often than humans did, for the most part. He hunted every few days, and he was fine. But he was curious. His slowly expanding palate now included beer, coffee, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. They were working on cheeseburgers.

As Dean dropped the bottles into the recycling bin with a crash, Castiel pulled himself into the room, pausing just inside the doorway. He sat on his hip, his shoulder on the doorframe, and folded his arms across his chest.

“Maybe I just want to wait?” Castiel said.

“But why?” Dean wiped his hands on a crumpled towel, left on the counter from the night’s attempt at dinner, before straightening it out and hanging it on the front of the tiny oven. He pursed his lips thoughtfully before turning back to Castiel, grinning as he pointed at him with both forefingers. “Unless—there’s something you want me to see.”

Castiel rewarded him with a tiny smile. “Maybe.”

“Alright,” Dean said, walking over to him. “I’ll play along. Two hours after sunset, we’ll go down to the beach. Happy?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, his eyes locked on Dean’s as Dean crouched down in front of him, his forearms on his knees. Castiel reached forward, tugging Dean into a brief, smiling kiss. “Very.”

“Well, I guess that gives us, what…thirty minutes?” Dean said, reaching out to push Castiel’s hair back from his forehead affectionately. “If I quickly clean up the living room and shower, then we go down there, does that work?”

Castiel nodded, but then waved toward the little bathroom that was back near the cabin’s single bedroom. “I’ll tidy everything up. You go shower, then we’ll go; the time should be close enough.”

“Alright, if you’ve got it. I’ll be back in a few.” Dean stole another quick kiss before straightening up, his knees cracking loudly. He’d spent the better part of Thursday digging up several mis-marked graves, and he was even gladder than usual to get to the cabin that morning. Relaxation. And time for his back to recover.

Plus, he’d really missed Cas.

Dean watched for a moment as Castiel pulled himself into the living room—blatantly ogling his biceps as he swiftly hauled himself across the floor—and began to tidy up the mess they’d made in the living room. Castiel had used the room for his weekly appointment with Dr. Vallens at three, video chatting from Dean’s laptop next to his pool. Dean had given him his space, of course, taking measurements outside for Baby’s new carport until he was done. Once Castiel had called Dean back inside, they’d put on some Zeppelin and made out on the couch, and ended up making the room even messier before dinner.

Castiel hummed as he picked up all the pillows from the floor.

Smiling, Dean went off to take his shower. It used to be hard to watch Castiel drag himself around. But eventually, Dean had adjusted his view. Castiel would ask for Dean’s help if he needed it, and Dean carried him from A to B. But within the cabin, Castiel needed his independence. He hated the way Dean cared for him on land—he didn’t hate Dean for doing it, but Dean knew it reminded him of the fact he should have been able to stand and walk and do everything for himself. Dean had learned that to truly help Castiel, he had to let him be stubborn. The worst thing he could do was make him feel weak.

The hot water at the cabin left something to be desired, but the new showerhead Dean had put in back at the beginning of the summer at least gave him a shoddy approximation of the bunker’s excellent water pressure. Secretly, Dean daydreamed about extending the cabin, building a real house here—but when would he have time? The couple of days he was here, he just wanted to spend with Castiel. And he needed to be there for Sammy, the rest of the time.

After scrubbing his hair roughly with a towel so it wouldn’t drip, Dean tossed the towel into the hamper and walked into the bedroom to grab some clean swim shorts. No point in drying his hair any further; whatever Castiel had planned would likely involve him getting wet, anyway.

“Is it late enough, yet?” Dean asked eagerly, strolling back into the living room barefoot, a clean, dry towel over his shoulder. He grabbed his phone from the arm of the couch and shoved it in his shorts pocket.

Yeah, so maybe he was a little curious what Castiel was going to show him. It was something special, he knew that much. Castiel had never made any fuss about what time they came in or out of the water before.

It was cute, and—as much as Dean felt like a big girl for thinking it—it was kinda, sorta, a little bit like Castiel was arranging a date for them, as best he could.

Which was pretty adorable.

The living room was tidy, and Dean found Castiel in the kitchen, pushed up on his muscled tail, doing the dishes.

“Yes, I suppose it’s late enough,” Castiel agreed, his tiny, sharp grin slightly amused.

“Ready to go?” Dean rubbed his hands together.

Castiel made him dry the dishes first. Then, finally, he said they could go.

“So, what’s the big deal that you’ve got to bring me down to the beach in the dark?” Dean asked, navigating his way down the stone steps super slowly with his arms full of tail, his eyes on the beam of the flashlight Castiel shone at his feet.

“Just wait and see,” Castiel teased.

“Man, you’re the worst.”

“You are terrible at surprises, Dean. You’re like an overgrown child.”

“But you still love me anyway, yeah?” Dean teased, before squinting at Castiel through the darkness and checking, “Right?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

The sand was cool between Dean’s toes as he carried Castiel to the water’s edge, lowering him down before dropping down beside him. Castiel passed Dean the flashlight, and he threw his towel up the beach a little before pulling his phone from his pocket and tossing it gently on top of it.

The day had been gray, but as Dean turned to look at Castiel, a bright shaft of moonlight peeked around the edge of the clouds and lit up the beach in silver. Castiel looked up, taking in the huge full moon that sat above the water, gleaming white.

“Perfect,” Castiel said.

“Pretty moon,” Dean noted. He nudged Castiel’s tail with his knee, giving him a cheesy wink. “That what you wanted me to see? Pretty romantic.”

Castiel’s smile was secretive. “Turn off the flashlight,” he said.

Obediently, Dean clicked the button and dropped it down to the sand next to him. It was dark, but with the moon overhead, the beach looked like a negative photograph, grays and soft blacks highlighted in beams of light from overhead.

“So, you want us to sit on the beach in the dark?” Dean asked, grinning.

Castiel’s skin looked paler, almost silver in the moonlight, and his eyes gleamed—Dean knew that they were deep blue, but as the clouds moved on their way and the moon was allowed to illuminate them, they almost seemed to glow, a white-blue twinkle that enchanted Dean to silence.

Smiling softly as Dean gazed at him—as if he was aware of Dean’s mushy thoughts about how beautiful he was—Castiel reached across and gently grasped Dean’s chin. “Look,” he murmured, turning Dean’s eyes to the sea.

“Woah,” Dean whispered. “What _is_ that?”

The edge of every softly cresting wave that pushed onto the beach, breaking onto the sand mere inches from their feet, was outlined in a shimmering, ethereal blue glow.

Even further out, as the waves washed over the sandbar, they shone. It really looked like magic; flickering, shimmering, beautiful magic.

“Plankton,” Castiel explained quietly. “Some species, particularly at certain times of the year, glow when they’re disturbed. It’s a self-defense mechanism, meant to draw predators to whatever is swimming amongst them, but it creates a really beautiful effect.”

Between their bodies, Dean reached to entwine his fingers with Castiel’s, his gaze still caught by the softly glowing sea. “I was wrong before,” Dean said. “The moon isn’t romantic—it really needs to step up its game, actually.”

Castiel’s warm lips pressed to Dean’s temple. “It gets even better,” he whispered. “Come on.”

Dean’s hand was tugged forward as Castiel shuffled down toward the waves. They illuminated around him, even more blue and bright where his tail disrupted the water. Dean shifted so that he could walk into the water on his knees, sand slinking around his legs as the waves swelled up around them. Following Castiel’s lead, Dean kept one hand clasped in his, their fingers entwined, and trailed the other through the water—leaving tiny twinkles like fireflies in his wake.

“This is so cool,” Dean said, his voice hushed, like he’d break the moment if he spoke too loud.

The water was cold, typical of the Pacific Northwest in fall, but Dean was too enchanted by the luminous plankton to care. He’d be fine for a while, and he didn’t have to go far to get warmed up after.

Castiel tugged Dean in further and further, until he had to stand up from his knees and wade right in. Only then did Castiel let Dean’s hand go, diving under the water ahead of him and resurfacing a few feet later. He beckoned; his motion outlined in blue.

Alright. Dean ducked into the water and swam after him, gritting his teeth against the initial rush of cold, and followed. His body adjusted quickly to the temperature as Castiel led them away from the shore—not far, just out past the breaker zone to where the bottom turned to dark sand and dropped away.

Castiel stopped, then, and reached out for Dean’s hand again as he trod water beside him. “Hold your breath,” he said.

“Okay,” Dean agreed, sucking in a few long breaths, packing his lungs.

Castiel nodded, then ducked under the water, pulling Dean with him.

Dean knew that Castiel moved very slowly for his sake. He kicked hard, but was mostly pulled down by Castiel’s power, swimming just a few feet under. The salt stung Dean’s eyes for a moment, but he was used to it—and he wasn’t going to miss whatever Castiel wanted him to see. 

The full moon, Dean realized once his eyes adjusted, lit up the whole cove. Even in the dim, silvery ocean, Dean could make out rocks and distant, darting fish as if he was watching an old black and white movie.

Castiel was right in front of him, still holding Dean’s hand as they drifted. And, Dean realized with a jolt, he was glowing too. 

Dean blinked, staring at Castiel’s tail. Along his dorsal line, from his butt down to his silky tail fin, dots of beautiful blue glowed in the moonlight, rippling down his body in enchanting patterns. Other dots spread around his hips, yet more across the front of him, near his tail.

The rhythm of the flashing kept Dean mesmerized for a few seconds. Why would Castiel flash like that? It was gorgeous, but...why? To scare off predators? Well—no, now Dean thought about it, Castiel kinda _was_ the ultimate predator. Unless he got into a personal dispute with a bull shark, he didn’t have many issues down here. To lure in food? Castiel hunted by stealth, from what Dean knew. So maybe it was— _Oh._ Dean gave Castiel a watery little smirk. To attract a mate.

 _Got your number, buddy,_ Dean thought, grinning to himself. 

Then, Castiel lifted his other hand and waved it in front of Dean’s face, sweeping it through the water.

The effect was amazing. The gray, underwater world around them turned into a magical, flickering cloud of tiny lights that flashed out of existence as quickly as they came. Holding his breath as he was, Dean couldn’t let out the delighted laugh that he wanted to, but by Castiel’s satisfied expression he was sure that his face showed his awe.

Dean reached his spare hand up and arced it forcefully through the water, his arm leaving a trail of glowing magic behind it. He grinned as best he could, unable to help himself.

Castiel came right up to Dean’s front, his own bioluminescence flashing brightly, and let go of Dean’s hand to curl his fingers over Dean’s bare hip. With a flick of his tail he spun them around, creating a dizzying whirl of fantastical, mystical, flashing lights around them.

It was like floating in stars.

Dean knew he’d have to push off the bottom and head up to the surface for breath in a second, but he was enchanted by the lights. He looked over at Castiel, wishing that he could explain how amazing this all was to a land-dwelling lump like him…but Castiel was right there, an inch away, gazing at Dean softly before he pressed their lips together.

Kissing underwater was a new and totally unique experience for Dean, and he found himself clinging back onto Castiel desperately, not wanting it to end—the coolness of the sea, the warmth of Castiel’s lips, the flashing of the starfield of plankton around them… Dean didn’t want any of it to end.

As if he could sense Dean’s lungs beginning to burn, Castiel flicked his tail once more and rocketed them up through the ocean of stars.

They played in the water for a few more minutes, Dean refusing to admit that he was cold but clinging more and more to Castiel, who was basically a heater.

“One more dive down,” Dean said breathlessly, paddling around to keep his head above the dark water. “Then we can head back to the cabin…once I’m dried off, I have a few ideas how to thank you for this awesome little beach date, Cas.”

Castiel raised both of his eyebrows in interest, grinning. Something distracted him beyond Dean’s shoulder, though, and he pointed to the beach. “Your phone,” he said.

Up on the sand in the distance, on Dean’s barely visible towel where he’d left it out of the waves, there was a tell-tale bright light.

Dean sighed, beginning to swim back. “Guess I should see who that is and what they want,” he grumbled.

Barely a minute later, Dean unlocked his phone with hastily dried hands and flopped down into the sand.

**_Missed Calls_ **

**_Sammy (2)_ **

Pulling his towel around himself as he watched Castiel at the edge of the ocean, his tail flicking up sprays of sparkling plankton as he rolled through the waves, Dean waited for Sam to pick up.

“Hey, Dean.”

“’Sup, Sammy?” Dean responded, stretching out his chilled legs in the sand.

“Sorry for interrupting your couple time, but I figured you’d want to know right away,” Sam said, sounding excited, like he was just _begging_ Dean to ask what he meant.

“Know what?”

“I found it—the place Castiel’s brother told us about. Broward County Mystery Spot. Turns out it’s in Florida—should’ve guessed.”

“And?” Dean said, perfectly still in the sand. He felt like he was still holding his breath underwater.

“And they still have it—the mermaid is still on display, amulet and all. We can leave as soon as you get back to Kansas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time...well, you can guess. Clearly, we're off on an amulet hunt next chapter!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you all had a great holiday season, or at least the best that 2020 would allow you to have. Here's to 2021 being a bit better...time to cross our fingers.
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> P.S. If you would like updates, [please subscribe!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile) You can also follow me on my social media, over on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MalMuses), [Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/), and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/mal_muses/?hl=en).


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends!
> 
> I missed you! First of all, apologies for the delay. It's been a rough few weeks in my life where things just seemed to cannonball from bad to worse, and I really wasn't in a place where I could post this chapter last week. However! In penance...I will offer you the next chapter next week, without a wait. How's that sound?
> 
> In a similar vein, some of you may have noticed that I didn't get through answering all of the comments on my last chapter. I'm so sorry for that. I love chatting with you all and I usually answer every comment, but this week was really a _week_ , y'all. I apologize.
> 
> I hope you've all been doing well, readers. We have a new president here in America since I last posted; time is such a funny thing sometimes. The world is very different from how it was when I began posting this story. I'll be sad when it's over!
> 
> Speaking of which, we're getting really close to the end of this one. Thank you, all of you, for coming along on the ride!
> 
> One note: there will be a tiny holdup with the art posting for this chapter! Don't be too sad, Liz will have it for us tomorrow on her Instagram, Tumblr, and Twitter, and I will embed the piece then and edit this note accordingly. Until then, I hope you like the words! I've got an action-y chapter for you this week, so I will shut up and get on with it.
> 
> Update: IT'S HERE AND IT'S GORGEOUS! I love how this picture is a mirror to Dean taking Castiel's scales from him in chapter one, and now he's giving something back. Please do go give Liz some love on her [Instagram, ](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/?hl=en)[Tumblr](https://lizleeships.tumblr.com/), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/lizleeships).
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \- Mal <3

“I feel like I’m standing in a carnival funhouse,” Dean hissed through the dim light. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Sam whispered back, “just move!” 

Dean stepped a little further into the bizarrely painted corridor that led through the Mystery Spot of Broward County, Florida’s low budget answer to the Museum of the Weird. The hallway was painted black with a neon green strip that swirled its way from the front door to the back, all around the walls, floor, and ceiling. It was like walking through a broken kaleidoscope.

Sam squeezed through the door behind Dean, carefully closing it. Just because they were breaking in at four in the morning, it didn’t need to _look_ like they were.

Taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the low emergency lighting that illuminated the whole building, Dean tucked his high-power flashlight into his jacket’s inside pocket. No need to draw more attention to themselves.

“Alright,” Dean whispered. “Fourth room on the left, sea mysteries.”

With a soft hum of agreement, Sam fell into step beside him. Dean felt a swell of gratitude for his steadfast, reliable brother, who hadn’t hesitated to commit a third-degree felony at Dean’s side…and it was hardly the first time.

Dean, of course, knew that it was a third-degree felony because Sam had droned on about it ever since they’d crossed the border from Georgia.

He was a great brother, but he wasn’t perfect.

They’d done the recon after lunch, buying tickets and squeezing through the turnstile with the thin stream of tourists, fake smiles slapped on their faces as they tried to look as interested as they could in all the fake supernatural and “weird” oddities the small museum was filled with. What they were paying more attention to, of course, was where the security cameras were, what types of locks were on the doors, and which room the mermaid was kept in.

It was hardly the first time they’d cased a joint for a strange magical artifact or something they had to salt and burn. Alright, it was the first time they were abducting a body, but it’s not like their criminal records could get much worse, anyway.

“Got the glass cutter?” Sam asked as they approached the low, tabletop case in the center of the “Sea Mysteries” room.

Dean reached into his jeans pocket, pulled it out, and got to work.

They’d decided to go for glass cutting rather than a smash and grab—after arguing about it for thirty minutes—because they had no idea how delicate the case’s contents might be. The label on the case said that the mermaid had washed ashore on the Florida coast in 1909. It didn’t look to be particularly well mummified, parts of it already crumbling. She was skinny, dried up, and sad-looking. 

The amulet that they’d come for was wrapped within the chalky bandages that were holding her together, a larger replica of it on display next to her head, for easy viewing. The bits of the chain that stood out between the gray of her remains were tarnished black, and Dean was secretly afraid that it might be too deteriorated to be any good to them.

But that was a problem for tomorrow Dean, the Dean who would be miles from here with a mummy on the back seat.

Now-Dean had to get the thing— _her,_ Dean reminded himself—out of the museum without triggering the alarms. Luckily, Sam was a delicate and sneaky giant when precision work was required, an odd contrast to how he occasionally stumbled over his own bulk and constantly banged his head the rest of the time. Had to be something to do with the moose blood, Dean thought.

As Dean worked his way around the edges of the case with the glass cutter, Sam slipped some gloves from his pocket and carefully got his fingers under the piece Dean was removing. They were delighted—and lucky—to note during their reconnaissance that the museum was nowhere near successful enough to have individually alarmed displays. Sam took five minutes with the security system, and they figured they should have at least thirty minutes before the off-site security company realized anything was wrong.

Easing the glass up as Dean cut it, Sam carefully lifted the rectangular, sharp-edged piece off to the side and propped it against the wall.

“Awesome,” Dean said, shoving the glass cutting tool back into his pocket. “Easy peasy. This is a cakewalk.”

“You’re awfully confident this will be fine,” Sam grumbled. “Must be the therapy.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Dean snarked, peering down into the case. “You should look in the mirror every morning and tell yourself you’d still be worthy if you cut your hair.”

Sam threw Dean a shining example of bitchface number six as he reached down into the case. “It’s going to take me a while longer to get my head around ‘well-adjusted Dean.’”

Dean snorted. “Never once have I claimed to be that. Lift on three?”

“One, two…three.”

Sam and Dean both braced their hands under the incredibly light, papery remains of the long-ago mermaid, and lifted her horizontally from her glass prison.

They were at least going to _attempt_ to keep her in one generally respectful piece.

“What are we going to do with her when we’ve unwrapped her and got the amulet free?” Sam asked quietly as they shuffled back along the corridor, trying not to jostle the corpse too much.

“Dunno.” Dean considered for a moment as he navigated his way around the corner, back into the nauseating, green and black funhouse corridor. “Put her back in the sea, maybe? That kinda seems like what a mer might want? Or like, cremate her and sprinkle the ashes?”

“Could ask Cas,” Sam suggested.

“I, uh, may not have mentioned to him exactly what I was going to use the scales for.”

“You didn’t tell him we were doing this?” Sam barely sounded surprised. “I take back that ‘well-adjusted’ thing.”

“I don’t wanna get his hopes up, that’s all,” Dean countered with an angry huff. “Gonna give him all the details if it works, but I refuse to give him false hope after everything he’s been through, okay? His brother suggested taking this amulet, so I’m assuming this isn’t a huge insult within their culture or anything. But even so, I don’t really want to have a conversation about effectively grave-robbing magical jewelry from what’s probably his second cousin sixty-four times removed or something if it doesn’t even work.”

“So, you’re hiding it from him just to avoid the argument.”

“Yup.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“Shut up.”

They reached the door and Dean eased one hand out toward the handle, tugging it gently toward them and catching the bottom of it with his foot. Baby was parked only a few feet beyond the door, backseat unlocked, ready for her new occupant.

“Home free, Sammy,” Dean whispered.

The sound of a shotgun cocking cut off Sam’s reply.

“RUN!” Dean hollered, swinging open Baby’s back door.

There was no point in negotiating. Shotgun-toting Floridians who apparently slept in freaky museums and thought “genuine pilgrim toenail clippings” were a crowd pleaser just weren’t the kinda folks you negotiated with.

A chaotic moment ensued: Dean ducked, flinging himself across Baby’s hood toward the driver’s seat, Sam dove forward, throwing himself into the back seat along with their mermaid friend, and the sound of a double-barreled shot echoed through the early morning light.

“Sammy!” Dean called out, his eyes on the road.

“Drive!” Sam barked in answer, and that was enough for Dean.

Baby’s tires squealed as Dean floored the accelerator, her engine roaring in complaint as he swung them around the corner onto the main road. More shots rang out. Baby’s back window screamed and shattered, a white web almost entirely obscuring Dean’s view in the mirror. 

No way was Dean down for being chased when he couldn’t see behind them.

“Sam!” Dean shouted back, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Got it!”

In the rear-view mirror, Dean saw Sam—without any blood to be seen, thank God—pull the sleeve of his jacket down over his fist and punch outward, shoving the smashed glass out of the way. He slid his elbow along the frame, clearing the clinging remains of the window so that Dean could see beyond. Tinkling glass crystals showered down across the back seat and over Baby’s trunk.

Behind the Impala, growing smaller by the second, a husky, bald man ran full pelt, shotgun in hand. Relief flooded through Dean—shotguns were powerful, but not that accurate. They were already too far away for him to feel any real concern about any more serious damage to Baby. Thank God.

The understandably irate Mystery Spot owner pulled the gun up, aimed, and fired once more—a last-ditch effort.

Dean swerved easily, the shot ricocheting off into the distance as he pulled the Impala onto I-95. The road was the main thoroughfare up the east coast of the country, and it had a few cars on it already, even at such an early hour of the morning. It was wide and fast, and there was no way that the angry owner of the Mystery Spot could follow them on foot.

“Thanks,” Dean said once he’d settled into the right lane, pulling them ahead of a cruising Ford Escape to his left. He was going to push the speed limit the whole way to Fort Lauderdale, then spin off through the Everglades and take the long, quiet way home. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, sounding apprehensive. “The dude was a shitty shot, nothing hit me. Not so sure the same can be said for the mermaid, though.”

One hand on the wheel, Dean craned his neck to peer into the back. Sam sat on the edge of the bench seat, covered in glass shards and gray, crumbling dust. The mermaid remains were next to him—and half under him.

“Damn it, Sammy! You squashed Ariel.”

Sam rolled his eyes, dusting off his thighs before he reached over and probed amongst the crispy, crushed bandaging around the mermaid’s neck. “We got what we needed…we can sweep her up and scatter her into the sea, or something, maybe?”

Dean sighed. “Sure. We are definitely not telling Cas about this,” he said, doubling down.

For once, Sam didn’t argue. Instead, he stuck his head into the front of the car, reaching out to steady himself on the dashboard as he clambered over the seat back and into the passenger side, next to Dean.

“Jesus! Watch what you’re doing!” Dean complained, ducking to the side to avoid one of Sam’s boots as it swept past his ear. “Don’t make me crash because you can’t control your gargantuan limbs; Baby’s had enough mistreatment today.”

“Jerk,” Sam muttered under his breath, scrambling awkwardly to fold his excessively long legs down into the footwell.

“Bitch,” Dean chirped merrily, looking over at Sam as he settled in his seat.

“You’re in a pretty good mood considering Baby just got her back window shot out,” Sam said. Even as he said the words, he raised his hand and opened his fist to let a long, tarnished chain fall to swing in the air, looped around his forefinger. “Must be because of this.”

At the end of the chain was an empty glass cylinder, topped with an ornate, silver-ish cap that attached it to the necklace. It was similar to the one Gabriel had worn in all but color. It swung erratically from Sam’s hand as Baby hurtled up the highway, as far over the speed limit as Dean dared to go while there might be cops around.

Dean didn’t want the hassle of being caught with a flattened, hundred-year-old body on the back seat.

“That definitely has a lot to do with it,” Dean said, grinning across at the swinging amulet. “Hopefully the old mer-lady back there won’t mind us borrowing it for Cas.”

“She’d probably be more concerned that I crushed her ribcage,” Sam said mildy, settling into the odd humor than only escaping gunfire could produce. “Seems a bit disrespectful on her immortal soul.”

“That’s assuming merfolk have souls,” Dean pondered. “Isn’t that a human thing?”

“Don’t know, haven’t done the research. But they seem way too human-like not to. Maybe it’s powerful souls that give them that whole magic thing they’ve got going on.” Sam shrugged, clearly just guessing. He carefully coiled the amulet and chain down into his shirt pocket, safe.

Dean grunted in agreement. “That one would definitely be a question for Cas.”

“So, what are you going to tell him?”

“Kinda banking on him being too excited to ask a lot of questions, give me some time to work out how best to explain.”

“You’re gonna be in big trouble, lover boy.”

“Yep,” Dean said, popping the ‘p’. “But it’s worth it. Or it will be, if we can get that thing powered up.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed.

They both fell quiet for a moment, eyes on the road, until Dean let a small sigh, squared his shoulders, and said, “Well, that Gabriel guy seemed to think I ‘have it in me,’ whatever that means. So, I’m telling myself that we’ve got this. We’ll hunker down, do the research—if I really have to, I’ll tell Cas and ask him about it. But that’s a last resort.”

“Wait—say that again?” Sam’s head snapped over to Dean, looking at him with wide, hazel eyes that immediately put Dean on edge.

“What? I’ll ask Cas as a last resort?”

“No, no—the Gabriel thing!”

“Uh—” Dean rolled his mind back, trying to keep an eye on the road signs to catch the next exit off the highway and onto quieter backroads while he recalled what he’d said, “—oh, that he said he thought I ‘have it in me,’ so maybe we’ve got this?”

“Have it in you!” Sam’s head rolled back against Baby’s front seat, laughing to himself. “Oh my God, what a douche.”

“What? Me? What did I do?” Dean asked incredulously.

“Not you, Gabriel. ‘You have it in you,’ seriously, what a cryptic—”

“Sam. Make sense, please.”

“Souls, Dean. That dick stared at you for, like, a full minute, then said he thought you had it in you,” Sam explained slowly, shaking his head in amused disbelief.

“And you think he meant that literally,’ Dean checked.

“We just said it—souls are powerful. The very strongest magic available to humans, dark or light, taps into souls. Gabriel wasn’t just looking to see if you were strong enough—I think he was looking to see if you had the motivation to do it, the strength of _soul._ ”

“And…do I?” Dean asked, still a little confused.

“Would you use your own soul to power this thing up for Cas?” Sam asked, tapping on his shirt pocket where the amulet was cozied away.

“Yeah, of course. Even if we weren’t together now, he’s family.”

“Then yes, you do,” Sam said, matter-of-factly. “I’m certain that’s what Gabriel meant.”

“So, how does that help us?”

Sam grimaced. “It does help, but really, it just leaves us with an even bigger pile of research to do.”

Dean sighed. He’d had a horrible feeling that’d be the case.

The salty-tasting wind was frigid and cruel as it whipped around Dean, pushing him sideways against the cliffside as he descended the wet stone stairs in North Cove. It was pitch black; the waning moon overhead was entirely obstructed by thick, heavy, late-autumn clouds. The air smelled like ocean and damp trees.

Dean’s flashlight shook a little; he readjusted his grip, dismissing his nerves. He didn’t want to go ass-over-teakettle down the remaining fourteen feet, or so, of the carved cliff steps.

When he reached the beach, he looked back up to the cliff-top where the cabin stood, dark and quiet. Maybe he should have put the porch light on...ahh, well. Fuck if he was making the journey back up, not with all this weight.

Once he’d made it halfway across the beach, to a patch of dry, relatively flat sand, Dean dumped the heavy duffle he was hauling down from his shoulder. Witchcraft—he hated it. It was always creepy, and involved, and often heavy. And usually stinky, too, now that he thought of it.

Sam had offered to come, to stay at the cabin, just in case. He got a ton of brother points for offering; not that Sam ever needed them, he was the best brother in the world. When he wasn’t trying to make Dean eat salad, anyway. But this time, it felt too personal.

He’d told Sam he wanted to do it alone with Castiel—whether it worked or didn’t—and Sam had understood. Dean just had to call him tomorrow, to make sure Sam wasn’t left wondering how it’d gone.

As if Dean wouldn’t be shouting it from the rooftops.

Dean was glad that the cove was totally hidden as he kicked off his boots and stripped off his clothes. Not that Dean was embarrassed about his body, or anything…a bit of softness to his tummy notwithstanding, he knew he looked damn good. But hell, it was cold out here, let a guy keep his dignity.

“Skyclad,” the magic types always called it. Sam went on about connections to nature, but Dean was pretty sure they were just angling for a good ol’ fashioned orgy, back in the middle ages when the spell was written. Who wouldn’t have been, what with all those threats of burning at the stake hanging overhead? Get it while the getting’s good, Dean always thought.

Rooting through the duffle, Dean pulled out all the thick pillar candles that Sam had packed for him. He’d put them in sturdy glass jars to help protect from the wind, making them even heavier. They were all blessed and carved with something or other—Dean hadn’t bothered with the details. He trusted Sam. He’d follow his instructions without question.

“Alright, time to get this show on the road,” Dean muttered to himself.

It was too dark to pick out much in the ocean, but Dean flicked his flashlight out over the waves, anyway. If Castiel was in the shallows, he hadn’t spotted Dean yet. Likely, though, he was out hunting in the trenches and reefs, having no expectations that Dean would be coming to the cove to see him in the middle of the week, unplanned.

Dean considered calling for him—or singing for him, as the case may be—but decided to get the first part of the ritual over with first. He needed the waning moon, so he should get it done while it was still in the sky. Then he could argue with Castiel.

After placing the candles in a circle and lighting them all in the correct direction, (clockwise, not ‘deosil’ or whatever the fuck it was Sam kept calling it,) Dean pulled out the huge bag of salt that Sam had dug out of one of the bunker’s storage rooms.

It took him several tries, waiting with the bag of salt in hand, to get all the candles to stay lit in the whipping wind. In the end, he buried them down low in the sand inside their glass jars, and dragged a driftwood log over to help shelter them. Whatever worked.

Lots of salt sprinkling—and _lots_ of chanting—later, Dean was certain he was as purified as he could get. Mer magic, it turned out, was pretty dependent on any human attempting it being…well, salty and pure. Dean wasn’t a fan. It was like he was trying to _become_ the sea, and he wasn’t about having salt anywhere other than on his fries.

Dean did feel a strange tingle go through him as he reached into the bag and pulled out the carefully wrapped amulet, though, as if he could sense something from it that he’d been unable to before. He turned it in his palm nervously. While Sam had worked on refining the spell, Dean had cleaned up the amulet. Beneath all the tarnish, it wasn’t in bad condition. Now it gleamed, a heavy silver chain and a delicate glass tube. Ready for part of Dean’s soul to be siphoned into it.

He was expecting pain.

But it’d be worth it. Now, he just had to call Castiel.

Dean walked down to the edge of the sea, flashlight in hand. When he’d been down here with Castiel before, during the full moon, he’d been able to see quite well—but the waning moon overhead was weak, low in the sky, and crowded out by intermittent patches of dark clouds. Instead of glowing silver, the beach was gunmetal gray. The water around Dean’s toes was cold enough to bite, reminding him that winter was well on its way.

“Cas!” Dean called out across the ocean. His voice returned back to him from the cliff sides, echoing melancholically on the wind. “Castiel!”

After a moment, hearing no response, Dean cleared his throat and lifted his voice, singing the first thing that came to mind.

_“If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you…When mountains crumble to the sea, there will still be you and me…”_

By the time Dean was on the second verse of Led Zeppelin’s _Thank You,_ a rippling splash broke the water out behind the waves.

“Dean!” Castiel called, his delight carrying through the dark.

“Hey, Cas.” The night was cold, but Dean felt warmer already.

“What are you doing out here in the middle of the night? I wasn’t expecting you for several more days—not that I’m complaining.”

“Rushed up here to see you,” Dean said warmly. He gave up on the flashlight and tossed it up onto the beach, and let his eyes adjust to the dim light of the ring of candles behind him. As if it knew more light was needed, the moon struggled its way around the latest bank of clouds, illuminating the edges of Castiel swimming through the waves to the shore.

“Rushed?” Castiel asked as he broke out of the water only a few feet in front of Dean. Wet and gleaming in the weak moonlight, his eyes reflected the candlelight as he looked curiously up the beach. “What are you doing, Dean?”

Dean let out a breath. Time to ‘fess up, and hope Castiel was on board. “C’mere,” he said, kneeling down in the sand and reaching out his hand. The low-tide waves licked at his knees.

Castiel came forward, slipping his fingers between Dean’s. The closer he got to the candlelight behind Dean, the easier it was to see his confused, suspicious expression. “You’re here early, you’re naked, there are candles everywhere…and you’re salty?”

“Yeah. I’ve been doing a little mer magic. Sam did the research, of course, I’m just the guinea pig. Turns out you guys really like things pure and salty.”

That drew a small smile from Castiel, but he still squinted, waiting for Dean to continue.

“I got you something,” Dean said, squeezing Castiel’s fingers before he let them go. He held his hand out in front of him, the amulet concealed in his palm, and sucked in a breath before he revealed it.

Castiel’s eyes grew round and huge. “Dean, how—where? Where did you find that?”

“With a little help from a dude named Gabriel.”

Blinking hard, Castiel’s gaze moved from the amulet to Dean, then back again. “My brother, Gabriel? Gabriel gave you this?”

“No, not quite. But he told us where to find it, gave us some hints.”

Castiel’s shoulder fins were clamped tight to his body, and his hand shook a little as he raised it toward the glass cylinder in Dean’s palm. He didn’t touch, though, pulling his fingers back into a tight fist instead of closing the last few inches. “Dean, this is wonderful. Really. I appreciate you finding this for me, but it’s not _enough_ , just having an empty amulet doesn’t—”

“I know,” Dean interrupted, suppressing a shiver as the wind caressed his back. “It’s inert, right? Needs power to attract power, some magical shit like that.”

Dumbly, Castiel nodded. His blinking had turned into a solitary tear that gleamed in the orangey candlelight as it tracked down Castiel’s cheek.

“Hey,” Dean whispered, reaching out to rub away the wet trail with the thumb of his empty hand. “None of that. You think I’d bring this here just to tease you, to have it so close, but so far?”

Castiel’s lips parted, but he didn’t seem to know what to say.

“No, Cas. There’s a ritual. Sam and me—we’ve been working on this a while. Figuring out how to give you your magic back. Give you your freedom back, really, more than you have now.”

“How?” Castiel asked, his voice a wet, rumbling breath.

“There’s a spell—really simple, actually, if I’m ‘pure’ enough—” Dean looked down at the salt crystals still clinging to his bare skin and wrinkled his nose, “—then I can help you do it. We can power it up, bind it to you.”

“Dean, it would take such a lot of power to—”

“A soul,” Dean butted in, stronger and more determined. “It takes a soul.”

Castiel was silent, his gaze resting unerringly on Dean, as if he was _daring_ Dean to explain what he meant.

“My soul,” Dean added softly. “We’re going to take this amulet, and charge it back up with a piece of my soul. Then bind it to you.”

“But Dean,” Castiel said, barely above a whisper, “that means you’ll be bound to me, too.”

“I know.”

“But it’s _forever_ , Dean, it’s—”

“I know,” Dean repeated. “Don’t think I’m giving you this not knowing what I’m doing, Cas. I’ve done the research, found the amulet, rubbed myself with the damn condiments. I’m not going into this without knowing what it means.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Dean,” Castiel said. “It’s too much. I don’t—”  
  
  


  
  


“If you say you don’t deserve this, then so help me, we will fight about it. You do. What you _didn’t_ deserve was to have your magic taken from you in the first place.”

Dean could just make out Castiel’s lower lip trembling. The wind seemed to have stopped, holding its breath in unison with them, waiting to see who won.

“Please, Cas,” Dean whispered, reaching for his hand again. “Let me do this for you.”

“It’ll hurt,” Castiel said weakly. It sounded like a last-ditch effort, hope creeping around the edges of his words.

“Pain passes,” Dean pointed out.

“And you…you don’t mind being bound to me? What if you decide that…” Castiel didn’t finish his sentence, trailing off, the sound of the waves _shush_ -ing softly around them suddenly seeming much louder.

“Not planning on going anywhere,” Dean reassured him, before throwing out a tiny, hopeful grin. “Besides, you already told me that merfolk mate for life. Knew that before the first time we kissed. So what’s a little soul bond, just to make it official?”

Castiel surged forward then, and Dean could feel the salty tears on his cheeks as he kissed Dean desperately.

“That a yes?” Dean said once he had his breath back.

“Yes,” Castiel answered, his voice quivering. “If you’re really, really sure.”

“No one else I’d ever want to be bound to. As long as you’re sure, too. I mean, your magic is always gonna have a bit of me in it, now.”

“No one else I’d ever want connected to it.” Castiel smiled as he echoed Dean’s words. “Though I still want you to tell me the details of all of this—finding Gabriel, and the amulet, and working out how to do this.”

“’Course,” Dean agreed. “But how about we do this ritual first? I’ve got salt and sand in places I don’t even want to think about, and it’s so cold out here my self-esteem is taking a hit.”

Castiel’s eyes flicked downwards.

 _“Cas,”_ Dean complained.

Grinning, Castiel looked back up and placed both of his hands on Dean’s face, kissing him firmly again. Breathless with excitement, he said, “Tell me what we have to do.”

Dean swallowed down his nerves. “Pretty simple, like I said. Stay here in front of me, right where you are—” Dean shuffled back a few inches, so that there was space for him to hold the amulet between them, “—and put one hand on the amulet, and then one on me.”

Castiel reached forward and placed his hand over the amulet, so that it was pressed between their palms. With his other hand he reached out and firmly grasped Dean’s left shoulder. “Like this?”

“That should work.” Dean nodded.

“Now all I have to do is sing the mer incantation Sam taught me—and you better not laugh at my pronunciation—and when the amulet is charged up, you take it out of my hand and your magic should, like, _reach_ for it, according to Sam.”

Castiel’s tongue darted out past his sharp teeth to moisten his lips, and he nodded. “That does sound simple.”

“Exactly, nothing to go wrong there,” Dean said cheerfully, brimming with fake confidence. “Ready?”

Leaning in, Castiel collected one more soft, chaste kiss before he gave a shaky, nervous-looking exhale. His shoulder-fins quivered. “Ready.”

“Okay, just don’t let go of me, Cas. No matter what. Okay?”

Castiel nodded firmly.

Dean gulped in a big lungful of air then slowly let it out, calming himself. Then, he began to sing.

He knew he probably sounded like an idiot, to Castiel. Dean didn’t speak mer—human vocal cords weren’t really cut out for the intricacies of it, of the way notes became words and the key of the song could change everything. So, he just did his best. Dean had just memorized exactly what Sam had told him, the same two lines with one slight variation in tone, over and over. _Coax it out_ , Sam had said, as if that even made sense.

But, whether it made sense or not, that was what Dean tried to do.

Bathed in moonlight, Dean reached down deep inside himself, pulling and tugging and coaxing, and he sang, and sang, and sang.

Castiel was rapt, his eyes locked on Dean, perhaps understanding more of what Dean was doing than Dean himself did.

When Dean felt the first _lift_ within him, the first sensation of something warm peeling away from deep inside him, Castiel’s eyes widened.

“Dean!” he whispered in surprise, blinking hard, his lips parting.

Dean sang.

Overtop of Dean’s palm and clamped onto Dean’s shoulder, Castiel’s hands seemed to get hotter and hotter as Dean sang. The rhythmic roll of his chanting droned on between them, swelling like the waves—it started to sound like it was coming from somewhere _beyond_ Dean, or perhaps somewhere _within,_ as if it wasn’t merely his lips forming the words, not anymore.

The weather felt like it had been cooperating, up until that point—the wind quieting, the moon doing its best to beat the clouds and illuminate their faces, close together on the beach. But as a warm, building sensation filled Dean’s chest, the air began to whip around him ferociously, and the clouds rolled across the sky, leaving them only with leaping candlelight on the sand.

Castiel’s hands grew hotter and hotter, uncomfortably so. Dean guessed that Castiel must have been able to feel it, too, because he looked concerned, his eyes flicking between his grip on Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s face.

Hoping he could telegraph “Don’t let go!” without breaking his chant, Dean shook his head sharply.

Nodding, Castiel let out a shaky breath and firmed his grip, burning fingers tightening at the top of Dean’s arm.

The clouds, Dean registered far too late, were building into a storm—the first fork of lightning hit out at sea, lighting up the whole bay in white. For just an instant, Dean could see Castiel’s wide-eyed, wind-whipped face clearly, before it was swallowed by darkness again.

Dean’s hands trembled. The one he held the amulet in, pressed between his palm and Castiel’s, was steadied by Castiel’s fingers. The other he balled into a fist in midair, focusing on the half-moon shaped sparks of pain that his nails caused in the flesh of his palm—a minor distraction against what was happening to his burning shoulder.

Dean sang.

“Dean…” Castiel said, more uncertain, raising his voice over the wind.

There was another lightning flash, but this time the world didn’t go straight back to black—something lingered, a spark of light between their palms. In contrast to Dean’s shoulder—which was now _hot_ , Castiel’s fingers like brands—the amulet they held felt like ice, it’s metal clinging to Dean’s skin like frost on a winter’s morning.

Louder, Dean sang. More desperately. He didn’t know when he should stop—Sam said he’d _know,_ but how? How was he supposed to know?

As the buzzing, vibrating, _rising_ feeling within him grew, so did the glow of the amulet.

The light brightened until it challenged the lightning above. Dean and Castiel squinted against it. Castiel’s worried expression focused on the amulet, until his eyes rose up to Dean’s face—and he cried out, seeing something that Dean could not.

_“DEAN!”_

With an overwhelming flash of white heat, an agonizing _ripping_ sensation swallowed Dean up, occupying all of his senses...until a wash of darkness came, bringing with it silent, black relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have already pre-emptively built myself a blanket fort to hide in, in order to protect myself from any thrown objects due to the minor cliffhanger! 
> 
> This was a fun chapter to write, working in some of the stuff we saw in canon into this "AU but canon similar" world, but in different ways. If there was a real "Mystery Spot" near me, I would 100% want to visit it. Just imagine all the fics it would inspire! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, folks. Take care of yourselves!
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> P.S. Come follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MalMuses), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/mal_muses/?hl=en), or [Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/)! I post updates there (so if a chapter is going to be late, for example, Twitter is the best place to check) and you can find links on those profiles to other places where I lurk. If you'd like updates on the last couple of chapters of this fic or the ones posting after it, [please subscribe!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, folks!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the kindness and support on the last chapter. Is there an award for best readers in the fandom? I hereby declare that there is, and that you all win it!
> 
> Seriously, thank you. Your kind words meant a lot.
> 
> I'm sure you're all itching for me to relieve you of that cliffhanger though, so I won't keep you here too long! The important notes this week are:
> 
> [Liz](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/?hl=en) really went for it with this week's art! It's gorgeous, and sexy, and emotional, and _perfect_! Also NSFW, so keep that in mind if you're reading in public folks.
> 
> As promised when I started posting this fic: **skippable smut**. If you'd like to bypass it, you can skip the second scene entirely and I will summarize in the end note, as I've done previously. 
> 
> With that, onward!
> 
> \- Mal <3

Dean should have been freezing when he woke up. The pale, tumultuous sky birthed weak, pre-dawn light across the flat, unending sea. Plump, slowly moving clouds of white fluff obscured the blue, and the breeze that pushed the topmost grains of sand around the beach felt like icy fingers tickling at Dean’s skin. But still, his core was toasty. Something inside him lingered, cozy and familiar and glowing, like a warm, slowly flowing tap deep within.

Something, somewhere, though...someone was calling him, easing him toward wakefulness.

Inhaling deeply, Dean’s nose tingled with fresh salt, seaweed, and the distant tang of the clifftop spruce trees. A flock of gulls squawked horribly overhead, laughing at Dean’s inelegant splay on the shore.

Blinking against the light, which somehow hurt his eyes despite being weak and clouded over, Dean pushed up on his arms.

He was sprawled at the edge of the ocean, bare as the day he was born, his skin parched and tight from salt. His fingers sank down in the dry sand around his top half, making his rise up to a half-sitting posture uneven and ungainly. Down near his feet the sand was damper, but the waves didn’t reach where his body had landed.

Landed—he was going with landed, as the dent left by his form was deep and well-packed.

The motion drew Dean’s attention to his shoulder—it felt tighter than the rest of his skin, something slightly  _ off _ about it, though not painful.

Dean let out an involuntary gasp as his eyes fell on the red, bubbled scar on his skin. And it was a scar—it looked like a burn mark, something deep and permanent, but it wasn’t bleeding or blistered. The red was scar tissue, pulling a little perhaps, but looking far angrier than it actually felt.

A handprint.

_ Castiel’s  _ handprint, no doubt about it.

His fingers, clinging on desperately as Dean had instructed him to, had burned a perfect print into Dean’s shoulder. Each individual finger could be seen, even the lines of the joints visible where Castiel’s grip had curled over the top of Dean’s arm.

It was like a red, vivid tattoo, marking Dean as Castiel’s.

Desperately moistening his lips, Dean struggled up to fully sitting. He needed to—

“DEAN!” Castiel’s shout was distant but bellowed out with relief. Right, right—the sound that had woken Dean up. 

“Cas!” Dean called, rolling his weight through one hip until he was kneeling in the sand.

“Dean! Are you okay? I just woke up, I got thrown out to sea with the amulet and I was so worried—”

“I’m fine!” Dean yelled hurriedly, dusting sand from his forearms.

Castiel was just beyond the rolling swell of the ocean where the waves formed. He was heading toward the beach, swimming on the surface like a scudding torpedo, his eyes fixed on Dean.

Even at a distance, Dean could see Castiel’s wide, gummy smile of relief. It mirrored the feeling that flooded Dean—no matter what had happened with the spell, at least Cas was okay. He was breathing, swimming, smiling. That’s what mattered.

Pushing up to his feet, dusting off sand, Dean watched as Castiel stopped short of the beach, the water lapping across his chest. His hand went up to his collarbone—he was wearing the amulet, Dean realized belatedly, the heavy, silver-colored chain shining slightly in the weak sun that was beginning to wake up the cove.

Castiel wrapped his fingers around the amulet and ducked his head.

Dean held his breath.

A glow—so bright Dean had to raise a hand to shield his eyes—overtook Castiel.

Then he continued moving through the water, cutting the distance between himself and Dean with a huge smile on his face.

Walking through the water.

“Cas,” Dean said again, his arm dropping back down to his side like lead.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said when he was in the shallows, the water parting around his thighs— _ thighs. _

_ Holy shit. _

His beautiful tail was gone, his quirky, emotive shoulder fins out of sight. Not a single scale showed on his tanned skin, and the pointiness to his fingers and ears had softened. Thick, formidable thighs—reminiscent of the muscled power of his scaled tail—led down to shapely calves. He was naked, of course, a thick, dark patch of hair distracting Dean for only the briefest moment— _ later. _ He could think about  _ that _ later.

He looked human—human and beautiful, breathtaking as he rose up out of the ocean.

Castiel paused, the white seahorses at the tips of the waves caressing his shins, and ducked his head self-consciously, the pinkish tinge of a small blush highlighting his cheeks as he spread his arms out to the side, presenting himself. “What do you think?” he asked, quiet and shy.

“Jesus,  _ Cas, _ ” Dean breathed out, frozen to the spot, knowing he was grinning like an idiot and not caring at all. “You’re still perfect…just as handsome without your tail as with it.”

As Castiel stepped toward Dean, out of the water, his legs wobbled like a baby fawn and he stumbled to the left.

_ That _ got Dean moving.

“Careful!” Dean said, laughing, as he dove forward to grab at Castiel, getting his arms around his waist. “Looks like it might take you a few minutes to get used to those things again.”

“It has been quite a few years since I’ve transformed, yes,” Castiel confessed, gripping onto Dean’s biceps in turn. “The transition is a little disorienting.”

Dean suppressed a small sound at the  _ adorable  _ sight of Castiel leaning onto him, trying to remember how his legs worked. “I gotcha. You look like a drowned kitten.”

“That’s incredibly rude.”

“Kittens are cute.”

“I am not  _ cute _ ,” Castiel rumbled in complaint, straightening up.

Dean backed off, grinning, his hands up. “Alright, alright, whatever you say, Bambi.”

Castiel glared, but it was rather spoiled by his stumble forward into Dean, taking them both down.

Landing on the sand underneath Castiel with a loud  _ Oof!  _ sound, Dean couldn’t help but laugh. He wrapped his arms tight around Castiel, giddy with silly happiness, and showered his face with kisses. Their foreheads pressed together, Castiel let out a low, huffing chuckle of his own, melting under Dean’s lips.

“I’ll be fine. Walking without the support of the water is a whole different experience, that’s all.”

Dean hummed his agreement, ignoring the sand sticking to his back as Castiel’s weight pushed him down into the beach. He kissed him again, softer. “You got your magic back, Cas,” he whispered.

“You did,” Castiel corrected. “You got it for me…you gave me part of your soul.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, fighting a blush of his own. “I did.”

“I should be mad at you for being so reckless, and selfless, and stupid,” Castiel said, though he sounded the furthest thing from mad, softly laughing again, giddy like Dean.

“Later,” Dean said, trailing his hands down the length of Castiel’s strong back and resting them on his hips—Actual hips! Castiel had grabbable, scale free, sharp-boned  _ hips!— _ and kissing softly into the side of Castiel’s jaw, “you can be mad at me later. And we’ll talk about all of it, the who and where and how, later. I promise. For now, just be happy.”

Castiel pulled back to smile down at Dean, his pelvis pressing into Dean’s and briefly reminding him how  _ very naked _ they both were. Dean hadn’t been looking specifically, but he’d sure like to do a closer examination of—

“Dean,” Castiel said. He sounded worried, pulling Dean out of his own head. “What’s this? You’re hurt—I hurt you.”

Sitting back, straddling Dean’s hips in a way they would  _ definitely _ revisit later, Castiel reached out and cautiously touched his fingertips to Dean’s shoulder, where the memory of Castiel’s touch was burned into the skin.

“Nah,” Dean responded, dismissing Castiel’s worry. “It actually doesn’t hurt. I promise. When we were doing the spell, the magic was heating you up like crazy. Burned you right into my arm. But really, the skin just feels a bit…stiff, almost. Like a scar, no pain. I just haven’t had time to get used to it, so it’s a bit weird.”

Frowning, Castiel’s gaze shifted from Dean to his shoulder and back again, uncomfortable, looking unsure. Cautiously, he lightly pressed his fingers over the handprint, matching them up. It was undeniably his.

“Don’t feel guilty,” Dean said. He offered Castiel a small smile, joking gently, “Seriously. It’s kinda cool, actually. Some people pay for tattoos of their significant other’s names or fingerprints or stuff…I got a whole handprint for free.”

Castiel looked back at Dean, a tiny, possessive smile lifting his cheeks. “Well…if you’re sure. It might fade, soon. Heal up like a burn.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Dean said. He wasn’t sure why, but he just knew it wouldn’t. “But that’s okay. I like it.”

“You like it?” Castiel repeated, a twinkle of amusement in his blue, blue eyes. The breeze that was shifting the sand tousled the front of Castiel’s dark hair.

Fuck…he really was just as beautiful in this form as before.

“Yup. Call me kinky, but I kinda like being marked as yours…I’ll tell people it’s a kind of tattoo, like a scarification type thing. It’s only fair, really, with you carrying a bit of my soul around in there.” Dean reached up, pushing up to his elbow so that he could tap at the amulet hanging from Castiel’s neck. The cylinder looked full, swirling and bright-looking.

Beneath Dean’s finger, the amulet was warm. “I can feel it,” Castiel confessed. “Can you?”

Pulling in a deep, slow breath as he took stock of himself, Dean realized that he could. It wasn’t very noticeable if he wasn’t paying attention, but there was a soft sense of  _ presence, _ a connection that they hadn’t had before. “Yeah, I can. It’s small, like a thread...I imagine we’ll get used to it soon.”

“Yes, most likely. Though we may feel it more strongly if we’re apart.”

“Fine by me,” Dean said, smiling goofily. “Guess that just means we gotta work out a way to stay closer.”

Castiel looked down at the amulet, reaching up to turn it between his fingers slowly. “Thank you,” he said, gentle and quiet. “I’ll spend my whole life trying to repay you for this.”

Dean sat all the way up, wrapping one arm around Castiel where he straddled Dean’s waist, and slid his hand onto the side of Castiel’s face. His thumb brushed Castiel’s lips, his fingers nudging into Castiel’s hair, enjoying the slightly damp, silken sensation.

“You don’t need to repay me,” Dean murmured, watching his thumb as it shifted over the corner of Castiel’s mouth. Then he looked up, catching Castiel’s gaze and falling into one of the deep stares that they were long used to. “But how about you stick around that long, anyway, just in case?”

Castiel’s smile overpowered the rising sun’s light, and the warmth of their kisses made the breeze feel colder.

“Cabin?” Dean suggested quietly. “You good for a short walk?”

Castiel nodded. “I should be fine. I’ll just go slowly and stay close to you.”

Grinning, they untangled themselves and helped each other up. Dean looked around the beach; it was littered with blown-out candles and half-empty salt containers, but it took only a moment to clean up before they headed to the steps.

Dean held Castiel’s hand, squeezing his elegant human fingers in fascination. He had no problem staying close to Castiel, none at all.

Dean’s shoulder blades hit the back of the cabin door with a rattling  _ thump. _

“You seem like you’re feeling steadier on your feet,” he panted out between kisses, relishing the taste of Castiel—soft and warm, yet still salty and fresh, just like in his true form.

“I am,” Castiel agreed, biting his way up Dean’s jawline with his decidedly human, not-as-deadly teeth. “But we also don’t need to be standing up for what I have in mind.”

Dean began a low chuckle, but it turned into a moan as Castiel nipped his way down the side of his neck, tugging the skin gently between his teeth. He pushed back into Castiel’s space, getting his hands up onto Castiel’s chest. Ducking his head down, Dean indulged his urge to kiss Castiel’s shoulders, over and over. They were so smooth now, so tanned and soft…the scales that usually scattered them were beautiful in their own way, but Dean was sure going to enjoy the differences while he could.

“How long can you stay like this?” Dean asked into the side of Castiel’s neck, letting his lips drag against his throat.

Past a groan, Castiel forced out, “Indefinitely—it’s magic. I don’t need water like this. I’ll miss it, sooner than later, but I don’t need it.”

“Perfect,” Dean said, slipping his hands down to Castiel’s ass, letting his fingers map the new acres of warm skin. “I love you both ways. But I won’t mind being able to get out of bed to piss at night without accidentally stepping in your kiddie pool on the way.”

Castiel made a small, offended grumble, but it faded into another deep kiss. Tugging at Dean’s bottom lip with his teeth when they parted, Castiel gave a sheepish grin in the tight space between them. “I like being able to do that without hurting you.”

Dean peeled his shoulder blades from the door and reached down, letting his hands grip the firm muscles of Castiel’s thighs. “No argument from me,” he agreed, before lifting and coaxing Castiel’s legs up around his waist.

“Bedroom? Or couch?” Castiel asked, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck to steady himself.

Dean had never had Castiel wrapped around him before. Feeling their chests tight together, heartbeat against heartbeat, made a tingle of excitement race across his skin. He still carried the same salty, ocean scent that he always did—Dean wondered if that would fade, the more time he spent out of the water, or if it was just him and he’d always smell that way.

Even though the cabin was small, Dean took his time moving across it to take them to the bedroom. He was busy kissing Castiel, drinking in his salty taste and letting his fingers trail down his ribs, the lack of gills between each bone almost an odd feeling, after so long.

“Dean?” Castiel asked as Dean lowered him down to the bed, his voice hitching as his chest bounced a little on the mattress.

“Yes?” Dean said breathlessly, sliding down beside him and tangling their legs together.

Castiel shuffled across the rumpled patchwork quilt to meet Dean, pressing against him and trailing his soft, human fingers across Dean’s mouth, tracing his lips in fascination. Perhaps they felt different to touch now, Dean pondered, before Castiel’s kiss swallowed his thoughts.

Against Dean’s lips, Castiel breathed out huskily between kisses, “I want you inside me.”

Sudden arousal hitting him square in the chest, Dean sucked in a breath so deep it stole the air from Castiel’s lungs. 

Through sheer willpower, Dean didn’t throw Castiel back on the bed and  _ take. _

“Are you sure?” he panted instead, biting his lip against the feel of Castiel’s teeth dragging down his neck.

“What did we talk about with Mia?” Castiel said softly against Dean’s skin before he pulled back.

While the couple’s therapy sessions that Dean had been roped into weren’t exactly a sexy topic, it was a reasonable question. “That I have to trust you to set your own boundaries. You’re right. But you gotta remember your part, too, and try your best to let me know if you start getting uncomfortable— _ before _ it’s a problem for you, okay? I’m not gonna be mad.”

Castiel nodded firmly against the pillow, the fabric  _ shushing _ against his face. “Yes. Of course. I’d really like to try it, though—I’ve never been able to, before. It’s...something untainted, I suppose. Something I have control of that Earl never did.”

Their sex life hadn’t been all smooth sailing. Castiel often had issues when they were intimate, rough moments, and bad reactions when Dean touched him in certain ways. It was heartbreaking for Dean to watch, and even worse for Castiel to go through. Several times, a single wrong move by Dean had resulted in Castiel having a full-blown panic attack, and it was just something that they’d had to learn to handle. At first, the bad moments had scared Dean away from touching Castiel at all, until it finally clicked that avoiding Castiel was only hurting him more. 

The important thing was that Dean had talked instead of run, and Castiel had accepted that his trauma was a part of him, but it didn’t have to  _ be _ him. That’s where the couple’s therapy had come in. Not because they had problems between the two of them, but because the two of them had a problem they wanted to face together. It wasn’t always perfect. When it was good, it was really good. And when it wasn’t? That was okay, too. They loved each other all the same.

This, though...Dean was gonna make as damn sure as he could that this was good.

Especially given the circumstances. If Cas wanted that, wanted to experience something that his imprisonment hadn’t managed to ruin? Dean would never fight him on that.

Reaching across, Dean tangled his fingers in the thick tuft of hair at Castiel’s crown, the part that always stuck directly upward if Castiel came into contact with a pillow for more than a moment. Dean stroked, massaging gently at Castiel’s scalp as he tugged his face closer, inch by inch. Castiel’s eyes were bright with interest as Dean’s nose touched his jaw, nuzzling slowly up toward his ear.

“Then yes,” Dean clarified, pausing to roll Castiel’s earlobe between his lips. “I would love nothing more than to fuck you, Cas.”

Castiel’s breath rattled against his ribs, sounding loud as close to Dean as he was. “You want to?”

“Want to?” Dean smirked, working his lips across Castiel’s cheek and back to his mouth, kissing him languidly before responding any further. “Of course I  _ want to— _ fuck, I wanna feel you around my cock, wanna find out what sounds you make when I sink into you... You’re always so warm, I bet you’re so hot inside, so hot and tight for me…”

Castiel let out a low, weak rumble of approval, biting at his own lip and filling his lungs before he pushed into Dean’s space, hooking one leg up over Dean’s hip. “And people say communication isn’t sexy,” he teased.

Dean happily let Castiel lick into his mouth, the back of his neck sinking into the pillow as Castiel kissed him possessively, his weight shifting through his shoulders. Slowly—he always kept his movements slow—Dean slid his hand down Castiel’s side, amazed at the simple softness of  _ skin _ as he gripped at Castiel’s hip.

The armor-like scales may have been gone, but Castiel’s hip bones were sharp enough to slice what was left of Dean’s soul. They formed a perfect shelf for the pad of Dean’s thumb as his hand curled farther around, the very tips of his fingers caressing one of the dimples that framed the base of Castiel’s spine. Dean squeezed, a gentle grip but enough to earn him a handful of supple, scale-less flesh—and suddenly Dean felt like everything was electric and new, even if he’d been here before.

Everything felt the same—Castiel, close, a strong and very physical being that could probably overpower Dean in any form, but choosing to love him instead. Choosing to rock their bodies together, join their lips. But yet it was all so different; the weight of Castiel’s thigh curling over the top of Dean’s own hip feeling almost alien, it had been so long since Dean had felt something similar.

Castiel  _ liked it _ when Dean’s hand journeyed to his thigh, that much was certain; he keened out a soft, wanton sound against Dean’s lips, and as Dean’s fingers stroked the underside of his leg, teasing up to the swell of his cheek, Castiel’s lips quivered against Dean’s own.

“Touch me,” Castiel begged, his voice gravel and command.

Dean didn’t need telling, his dry hands already sailing over smooth skin to grip the meat of Castiel’s ass, his fingers  _ just _ teasing at the warmth of his ass crack. Dean lowered his own shoulder, rolling back, inviting Castiel’s body above his own.

Castiel went, and the sensation of his thick thighs either side of Dean’s hips had Dean giving out a moan in return.

Maybe he wasn’t twenty-one any more, but Castiel made him feel it—Dean was hard already, warm against his stomach as they pressed together, mouth to mouth. He could feel the hot length of Castiel’s cock, too, nudging against his own, lined up side-by-side.

Pulling back enough to lick his lips, take a shaking breath, and slip his eager hands around to the front of Castiel’s hips, Dean flicked his eyes downward in question. “Can I see you?”

Because, of course, he hadn’t—not really, not like this.

Understanding immediately, Castiel sat up, his position straddling Dean’s pelvis perfect for displaying his cock as he leaned back, his hands either side of Dean’s knees. Like a presentation piece, Castiel’s dick saluted Dean eagerly, bobbing in the air between them.

“Pretty,” Dean murmured, reaching out to trail two digits along it—a finger at the top, the pad of his thumb at the bottom, only the lightest pressure—up and down, jerking Castiel so slowly and softly they’d never get anywhere, but enjoying the feeling of it, the slip of warm skin over the firmness beneath. “You’ve got a pretty cock, Cas.”

Castiel let out a low chuckle, his eyes locked on Dean’s fingers. “I’m glad,” he said.

Uncut (which should have been obvious, if Dean had thought about it at all), pinkish, and with a thick vein along the underside, Castiel’s length—a little longer than Dean, perhaps, but no monster like in his other form—curved slightly upward, and Dean let out a low hum at the thought of the shiny tip of him peeking out from the soft skin and rubbing against Dean’s prostate, angled perfectly.

But not today; today, Castiel had a request. And Dean was going to make sure he got what he wanted.

Somewhat reluctantly, Dean let go of Castiel to twist his shoulders over to the left, to where the single pine nightstand sat. He tugged open the drawer, digging inside for the lube. They had tons of the stuff—with Castiel’s unique biology, they went through a  _ lot _ every time Dean wanted to be penetrated. He’d make sure they used plenty today, too—he remembered his own first time with something in his ass, and it wasn’t a wholly comfortable memory.

As Dean pulled out a nearly new bottle, Castiel shuffled down Dean’s legs. Dean was taken by surprise—very good surprise—when a hot, wet tongue slipped up his own erection from balls to tip, slow and wide and sloppy.

“Oh,  _ fuck, _ ” Dean hissed, his head hitting the pillow with a  _ thump.  _ “Jesus, Cas—that’s good, so good.”

Castiel’s tongue had only been around Dean’s cock in the very teasing, lightest of swipes—Dean wasn’t someone who got off on the idea of sharp, deadly teeth near his most sensitive spots, so it wasn’t something they’d really gotten into. By comparison, human teeth were practically nothing, and Castiel seemed to have made the decision to make up for what Dean had been missing.

“Holy shit,” Dean gasped as heat enveloped his tip.

Castiel’s lips sealed tight just beneath his head, a thin ring of pressure that traveled slowly down his length as Castiel took him further and further in. Dean grabbed handfuls of the old quilt—lube discarded next to his hip—as his cock nudged at Castiel’s soft palette, the slick bumping of his head on the curve into Castiel’s throat an incredible, indescribable feeling.

With his hands clamped around Dean’s hips, holding him in place, Castiel drew back off, licking his lips before he spat down onto Dean’s tip, getting him sloppy and soaked. He didn’t use his hands, at all, other than to pin Dean down, his thumbs making small circles in the trimmed, brown hair at Dean’s base. He swallowed Dean down slowly, sucking him in deep and noisy until Dean felt Castiel’s throat around his head.

Oh,  _ fuck. _

Dean watched Castiel’s eyelids flutter shut as he carefully sucked in air through his nose, loosening up his throat. He sucked and swallowed and hummed, and Dean sunk so deep into the mattress that he began to feel fuzzy at the edges.

The blow job didn’t last long—they definitely had other plans—but when Castiel slowly drew off, rotating his head to rub his lips just under Dean’s head on the way, Dean’s cock throbbed in complaint at the sudden lack of  _ touch. _

“You liked that,” Castiel noted calmly, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Few more minutes and I’d have come really fucking hard,” Dead admitted, flopping one hand across his sweaty forehead, his breath hot puffs.

Castiel smiled. “Good.”

Shifting his hand across the mattress to retrieve the lube bottle, Dean motioned Castiel back toward him.

“You want to kiss me?” Castiel checked, gesturing to his mouth in question.

“Yeah, yeah—” Dean reached behind Castiel’s neck, coaxing him in. “—I don’t mind.”

The taste of his own precum wasn’t Dean’s favorite flavor, but there was something  _ filthy  _ about the salty tang being delivered by Castiel’s mouth, and he groaned around Castiel’s tongue, licking into him deeply. 

Dean gently tapped the lube bottle against Castiel’s thigh. “Want this? Or…did you want me to do it for you?”

Castiel’s eyes darkened, his pupils widening and turning his irises from shallow seas to an ocean abyss. “Yes,” he rumbled, his tone of voice reassuringly rough. “Please. You do it.”

“Alright. I’m gonna go slow.”

Castiel nodded. He didn’t seem to want to move; above Dean, kissing him, one arm tucked beneath Dean’s shoulder while his other traveled across Dean’s chest, tracing his collarbone, circling his nipple. That was okay. Cas being comfortable was the most important thing here. The positioning was a little awkward, but Dean could work with it, for sure.

Dean pumped lube onto his fingers, coating them thickly. Dropping one shoulder, he reached between Castiel’s legs with his right hand, and used his left to grab ahold of the curve of Castiel’s ass cheek and pull him open. “Widen your legs a bit,” Dean murmured, tilting his head to the side with a hum of enjoyment as Castiel went to work on his throat.

Castiel’s knees shuffled outward a few inches, and that was perfect; Dean ghosted his lubed-up fingers across Castiel’s exposed hole, working by feel rather than sight, and it earned him a tiny shudder.

“Okay?” Dean whispered.

“Dean,” Castiel said patiently, “you don’t even have anything in me yet. I’m fine.”

Dean huffed, but smiled, biting through a groan as Castiel’s teeth skittered across his skin. “Alright, fine. Just…tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

Castiel nodded into the crook of Dean’s neck as Dean went exploring again, slowly circling Castiel’s entrance with the pad of his finger. He went in a tiny spiral, growing closer and closer, massaging his way inward. Castiel’s breath hitched intermittently, but Dean could feel his smiles as he lavished attention on Dean—it was anticipation, not discomfort.

With a slow, measured press, Dean eased the tip of his forefinger inside.

Oh, he was  _ hot— _ Dean expected it, but fuck. The lube warmed from the intense heat of him, and Dean knew he was gonna lose it pretty soon once he got that wet, tight, searing ass around his cock.

He felt Castiel’s eyelashes flutter against his skin, but he said nothing, continuing his way across Dean’s shoulder, butterfly kisses that were tantalizing in their softness.

Dean easily took a full minute to slowly work his first finger in; he wasn’t counting, but he wasn’t rushing, easing the single digit in and out, spreading lube as he went. He pressed his thumb up against Castiel’s taint, pushing and rocking as he went, a little extra stimulation to ease the way. Dean felt Castiel’s muscles relaxing around him, adjusting to the initial intrusion.

“You can continue,” Castiel rumbled breathlessly, pulling back to kiss Dean on the mouth. “Please.”

Dean enjoyed the kiss first, flicking his tongue along Castiel’s and letting his eyes slip shut; Castiel’s hand appeared around Dean’s cock, just one or two slow jerks, bringing back the throbbing in Dean’s core.

He wanted to sink into Castiel’s heat so badly.

Encouraged onward, Dean began slowly pushing his middle finger around the edge of Castiel’s hot, wet hole, still thrusting the first finger, his other hand shifting against the swell of Castiel’s ass as he tugged his cheeks further apart.

Castiel hummed a note as Dean worked his second finger in, the same slow process, concentrating as best he could while Castiel did his own work, sucking a bruise into the meat of Dean’s neck.

The third finger almost felt easier—Castiel froze, grunting slightly, shifting at the burn, but Dean eased off, applied some more lube, and then he almost seemed to suck Dean’s fingers back in; Castiel’s back curved, his ass pushing back against Dean’s hand, his muscles relaxing as he bore down against Dean’s palm, swallowing his fingers to the knuckle.

Castiel huffed out a sharp, uneven moan, and Dean couldn’t help but match it.

“You’re so hot inside,” Dean encouraged Castiel, turning his head to the side to whisper throatily in Castiel’s ear. “The way you’re clenching around me…it’s like I can feel your heartbeat from right inside you.”

“It feels good,” Castiel confessed. “It didn’t, to start with, but now…now it’s like everything relaxed and I just feel…I feel…”

Dean gave his fingers an experimental twist in the slick heat.

Castiel gave a strangled cry, his back arching, a wide-open, gasping smile on his face. “Full—I feel full. I like it.”

Satisfied, Dean slid his fingers out. By the expression on Castiel’s face, he wasn’t sure if he liked  _ that _ quite as much.

Grabbing for the abandoned lube bottle, which had rolled against Dean’s side, Dean reached between them and spread a couple of pumps across his own dick. Dean had used so much on Castiel he was practically dripping, but Dean wasn’t taking chances.

Searching for Castiel’s eyes, Dean pressed their foreheads together. “How do you want to do this?” he asked.

Staring right back down into Dean’s eyes, Castiel moistened his lips. “Like this,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “If that’s good for you.”

Wrapping one hand around the base of his cock to hold it still, Dean reached up and slid his other hand around Castiel’s lower back, holding him. He left a gentle peck on Castiel’s lips before he nodded. “Like this works—you’re totally in control from here. However you want to do it.”

Dean’s heartbeat was thundering in his chest as Castiel’s hand knocked his own aside, curling his fingers around Dean’s cock and stroking it once, twice, again…the lube seemed to heighten the sensation, and Dean’s mouth fell open as he closed his eyes.

“Love the way you feel, Cas,” Dean mumbled, drunk on feeling as Castiel’s hand moved.

But then Dean’s dick was pressing where Dean’s fingers had been—it was just the tip, guided by Castiel’s hand, but Dean could feel him, feel how wet he was, feel the startling heat of him brushing over the smooth glans of Dean’s cock.

Dean made a wordless whimper as Castiel guided Dean’s tip inside himself, and he was so tight, but yet so soft, and Dean couldn’t even decide how to describe it other than it was  _ so _ much better than feeling it through his fingers.

The sensation was everything, and Dean’s eyes immediately flew open to check on Castiel.

Slack-mouthed, there was a quiver to Castiel’s jaw as he adjusted, blinking frantically as he sucked air in harshly, over and over.

“Oh—oh,  _ oh…Dean…” _

The low rumble of Dean’s name as Castiel sank down, falling from his lips like prayer, was a sound Dean didn’t ever want to forget. He committed it to memory along with the bruising pads of Castiel’s fingers as they left white dots on Dean’s chest, the tight clamp of his thighs as they shook on either side of Dean’s hips, and the bead of sweat at Castiel’s brow that finally abandoned his hairline and trickled onto his creased forehead. A fierce look of concentration overcame him as he slowly, experimentally rotated his hips.

Dean wasn’t prepared for the sensation of Castiel flexing his thighs and slowly rising back up, almost pulling off—the tightness of his rim tugging at the corona of Dean’s cock right below the head—and it pulled a sharp, barking gasp from Dean’s lungs. “Cas! Yes—fuck, yes…”

“Do I feel good, Dean? Is it good, inside of me?” Castiel’s voice had developed a breathy, babbling quality that couldn’t quite cover the gravel of it, the way every word rasped out of him rough and raw.

Dean didn’t know where to put his hands—he wanted to cling onto Cas, tighten his fingers on his hips and leave a red signature against his tan skin, but he also wanted a handful of his flexing thighs, the muscles shifting beneath his fingers, and then he also wanted to reach out and take Castiel’s cock in hand, work his thumb around the gleaming tip of him and taste the glossy drips.

Instead he clung onto the quilt, bunching up handfuls of it, and let out a long, desperate moan.

_ “Ah—Ah—Ah—” _ Castiel picked up the pace, his thighs flexing, pushing against Dean’s chest so that he could angle himself how he wanted, making sure Dean’s cock was hitting just the right spot. Short sounds escaped his mouth, barely even words, falling down to Dean in a shower of pure, base affection.

The sound of them slapping together, sticky with lube, filled every corner of the tiny room.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean encouraged, babbling himself, not sure what exactly he was encouraging. Just…more, more of everything, more of Castiel making those sounds, more ragged breaths, more sweat, more of the building pressure beneath his bellybutton.

Dean could feel it welling up in him—not just  _ it, _ but everything else, and his hands went flailing to his chest to find Castiel’s and entwine with them, fingers crushed tight together.

“Cas,” Dean panted, “I’m not gonna last, too good—it’s too good.”

The rumbling huff above Dean might have been a laugh, but it turned into a sing-songy note of pleasure partway through.

Castiel reached for his own cock, Dean grabbed at Castiel’s hips like a lifeline, and Castiel sang.

Dean’s sprawled frame was tight and thrumming like a quivering string, hypersensitive to every movement, a lone instrument against the whole orchestra of notes that Castiel seemed to be able to produce all by himself.

It was beautiful music, but it couldn’t last long.

Dean could feel each note throbbing through Castiel’s body, a vibration so deep in his core that Dean was suddenly coming, hard and loud, the sensation unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

The note Castiel held wavered as Dean’s come splashed into him. Dean could feel it seeping out as Castiel kept moving, his cock getting slicked and filthy with it as he milked the last few spurts from Dean with his own hand tearing back and forth across his cock.

When Castiel came it was with a shaky cry of Dean’s name. Hot, thick spurts of come shuddered from the tip of him, splashing across Dean’s stomach and sliding across his warm skin, settling into his bellybutton and slipping down his sides to the sheets.

“Dean!” Castiel croaked out again, fourth and fifth spurts weaker, his stomach muscles twitching with the force of them.

Still full of white noise from his own orgasm, Dean merely groped upward, pulling Castiel down into his arms—Castiel slumped forward with a breathy sigh, a serene smile on his face.

They both groaned in unison a minute later as Dean’s softening cock slipped out from between Castiel’s cheeks, but neither moved.

Dean’s fingers worked vague trails up and down Castiel’s spine. He lay with his eyes closed, soaking everything in. He could feel Castiel’s palm gently shifting across his chest, Castiel’s lips lazily working open-mouthed kisses over Dean’s shoulder, wet and slow as molasses.

Smiling, Dean didn’t even open his eyes when he rolled his head forward, pressing his lips into the crown of Castiel’s head.

“I love you,” he whispered into the strands, so full with it he couldn’t keep the words in—he didn’t say it a lot, even though he could. Less than Castiel did, at least, but Castiel was better in general at expressing himself than Dean was, even now.

“I love you, too,” Castiel whispered right back, and Dean felt him smile against his shoulder.

“Was it good for you?” Dean asked softly, grinning in gentle jest.

“Perfect,” Castiel answered, suddenly serious, in that way he had which always made Dean think of the solemn air before a storm at sea. Every word considered, no matter how flippant Dean was being.

“We should shower, we’re gross,” Dean said quietly. Against their chests, he reached down and caught Castiel’s fingers, entwining them with his own.

He stared at them, marveling at how human they looked. And yet…

“I kinda miss your talons,” Dean confessed, aware only as it was coming out of his mouth how weird that might seem.

Castiel raised his head long enough to share his surprised expression with Dean. “Why?”

“Because they’re you. And this is you too, sure, but…I fell in love with you in that form. It’s always gonna be kinda special, y’know?”

One corner of Castiel’s mouth curved up into a fond smile. “Safer for you this way.”

“You’d never hurt me,” Dean said confidently.

“True,” said Castiel. “I’m glad that you enjoy both forms. I would stay in human form if you wanted me to, but a mer who is separated from the sea for too long…that’s a sad thing, indeed.”

“I’d never ask that of you,” Dean said, shifting down on the pillow so that he could look at Castiel’s face more seriously. “The sea is your home.”

“You’re my home,” Castiel answered, soft and simple. “I would go wherever you go.”

“What if I stay here?” Dean asked.

“In this tiny cabin?” Castiel’s eyebrow raised skeptically. “You’d miss Sam too much. And it’s not a central location like Kansas is, for your hunting. And the kitchen at the bunker is much better.”

“Maybe not here as it is right now,” Dean admitted. “But I’ve thought about maybe building a house here…seeing if Sam would be up for helping. Taking a few less hunts, maybe. I’m getting kinda old in hunting years, really. Not many of us make it out of our thirties.”

“Are you saying what I think you are?” Castiel said, surprised enough to lift his head entirely from Dean’s chest. “Scaling back on hunting? Retiring here?”

“Hunters don’t say the R-word, but…we can talk about it. After all,” Dean said, smiling as he brought their tangled fingers up to press his lips to them, “I can’t just be riding around the country, throwing myself at danger, and leaving a chunk of my soul here, now can I?”

The way Castiel’s expression melted down to something soft, his eyes no more storms at sea but gentle lagoons, was every answer Dean needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** SMUT SUMMARY ***  
> After the successful spell, Castiel can take human form for the first time in years. Once they return to the cabin, he requests to share something with Dean that he's never been able to do before, an experience at least somewhat untainted by his time imprisoned at the Ranch. Dean happily acquiesces, and when they're done, they snuggle up in the bed together and talk. Dean tells Castiel that, as strange as it may sound, he misses his talons. Castiel is surprised, and Dean reiterates that he loves Cas in every form, and he doesn't expect or want him to always look human now just because he can. Dean also gently brings up the idea of cutting back on hunting, staying closer to the sea, closer to Cas - after all, he can't just go riding around the country and leave part of his soul behind, can he? Although tentative, Castiel is very happy indeed that Dean would consider that.
> 
> ************************
> 
> D'aww, there we go! I hope that a fluffy ending to this chapter redeems me for the cliffhanger!
> 
> We're so close to done! I'm actually quite sad about it, lol. As you can tell from the chapter number, there's only one more chapter to post, an epilogue of sorts just to tie up a few loose ends and let us say goodbye. 
> 
> Though, a little birdie (possibly the twitter kind) told me to mention that there's a good possibility that this isn't the last mermaid fic you will see from me. I have a bunch of other stuff to post first, but...there's a chance that there may, just maybe, be a plan forming for another mermaid AU, so that we all get to see Dean with a tail. Shhh, keep it to yourselves ;)
> 
> One final note: FANART! [Liz's](https://twitter.com/lizleeships) amazing mermaid art has been inspiring some arty folk to try their hand at their own version of Mer Cas. As long as I can get permission from the artists, I'll be including a little roundup of additional fanart at the end of the fic. Just a little something extra to look forward to seeing next week!! (And a quick heads up in case anyone else would like to contribute!)
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> P.S. Come follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MalMuses), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/mal_muses/?hl=en), or [Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/)! I post updates there (so if a chapter is going to be late, for example, Twitter is the best place to check) and you can find links on those profiles to other places where I lurk. If you'd like updates on the last couple of chapters of this fic or the ones posting after it, [please subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile)!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's the end! I have a lot of emotions.
> 
> I have to give some thanks, of course. Firstly, to Liz. This whole world wouldn't exist without her and our late night chats about everything from plankton to dorks. More dorks than I should be proud of. Liz is a fantastic human being and a spectacular artist, and if I can do only one thing in this author's note, it would be to encourage you to head to her social media and check out all her links, show her your appreciation. Liz can be found on [Twitter, ](https://twitter.com/lizleeships)[Tumblr](https://lizleeships.tumblr.com/), and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/lizleeships/?hl=en) as well as several other sites, check out her linktree and have a poke around! She's a delight and the art is _chefs kiss_ , always.
> 
> Huge thanks also have to go to [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) and captainhaterade for putting up with not only my comma splices and incorrectly ordered adjectives, but with me in general! Stellar folks. 
> 
> More thanks have to go out to all of my Trashcan girls for their endless cheerleading and support. (You know who you are!)
> 
> And of course, to you. Every single dear, cherished reader that I am blessed with. Chatting with you in comments and on social media throughout the story has been amazing, and I'm so glad you all came along for the ride. 
> 
> Now...
> 
> The cheesy, happy ending that they deserve and that I promised all along.
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> (Serious cheese warning. Not for the lactose sensitive folks :P )

**_Six Months Later_ **

Dean topped up his half-empty mug with the dregs from the coffee pot, emptying it before he lowered it into the sink. Even with an evening ahead that involved little more than relaxing around the cabin and napping on the beach, coffee was still his non-alcoholic drink of choice. Submerging the glass jug into the soapy water he’d prepared, Dean hummed a few lines of _Travelling Riverside Blues_ under his breath as he reached for the scrubby dish sponge. A biodegradable one, because he’d already had more than enough lectures from Castiel about plastics in the oceans, thank you very much.

He sang a lot these days, for no reason other than to share it with Castiel. Or occasionally just to annoy him with an earworm, of course.

When the sound of a ringing phone reached him, Dean was still scrubbing the bottom of the pot to remove the black tar from having left it sitting on the warmer all day.

“God damn it,” he hissed beneath his breath, dropping the pot back into the water with a soft _splosh_ and quickly grabbing a towel from the front of the stove. “Isn’t it a bit late in the day for this shit?”

He dried his fingers as he strode hastily across the living room. They’d rearranged the whole thing, he and Castiel, some months back. These days, the couch was pulled along one wall at an angle to the window, instead of facing it. It meant that they’d been able to squeeze in an easel for Castiel to paint at when it was raining and a small record table for Dean’s growing vinyl collection, while still leaving space for a desk and several long shelves filled with cell phones across the back wall.

Castiel’s paintings were spectacular. It amused Dean to no end that ‘human’ Castiel was becoming known locally for his wonderful sea paintings, showing views under the waves so beautifully realistic that people held their breath to look at them. Of course, Castiel worked with watercolors. And yes, Dean had punned about that to his heart's content. Castiel merely rolled his eyes and often flicked his brush in Dean’s direction. 

Rushing over to the desk, Dean reached across to the lowest shelf on the wall where a plugged-in Samsung was lit up, illuminating the dim corner and shrilling loudly.

“FBI, Sturgiss” the handwritten-Sharpie label on the back of the phone read.

“Sturgiss,” Dean barked into the phone as he brought it to his ear.

“Hey, boss,” came a bright, young voice from the other end of the line. “I’ve got Sheriff Almer from Hinsdale, Illinois here with me. He wants to speak to you.”

It was Claire, one of the new generation of hunters—kids, Dean couldn’t help but think of them—that he and Sam had been training up for months. “Alright, put him on,” Dean said, slinging the kitchen towel over his shoulder.

“Mister Sturgiss, is it?” The voice on the other end of the phone was male, deep, and skeptical.

“Deputy Assistant Director Sturgiss, actually,” Dean responded sourly, well practiced. “You holding up my agent’s investigation for a reason, Sheriff?”

“I, uh, I just wanted to check—”

“Check that my agent is suitable? I assure you, we only hire the best.” Dean’s tone was formal and clipped, pushing just a little, keeping the sheriff flustered.

“Of course, yeah, I just, she...well, she—”

“She?” Dean asked, dripping with derision. “This hold up better not be anything to do with my agent being a ‘she,’ Sheriff Almer. If I have to come down there myself, just because you can’t respect the authority of—”

“No! No, of course not,” the alarmed sheriff interrupted frantically. “Not at all. If she’s one of yours, then of course we’ll give her whatever she needs.”

“Much better,” Dean said, adding an ounce of sugar to his voice. “I’m sure when she reports back she’ll have plenty of good things to say about the Hinsdale Sheriff’s Department.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

There was a momentary scuffling noise as the hapless sheriff handed the phone back to Claire.

“Thanks, boss,” Claire said coolly.

“Anytime,” Dean answered, softer and kinder but still formal, just in case the sheriff overheard.

Claire hung up and Dean plugged the phone back in, setting “FBI, Sturgiss” back between “CIA, Maddow” and “Arms Control and International Security, Hemming.”

He’d better keep his phone close all day, in case Claire needed a brain to pick or research help. Though, realistically, if she needed either of those she’d be calling Sam at the bunker. Unless, of course, he was out hunting with Eileen—a special ‘lady friend’ hunter he’d met on a banshee case down in Kansas.

Dean didn’t have the heart to tease Sam about Eileen...or at least not much. Eileen was a badass. He tried not to remind Sam that she could do way better than him _too_ often.

Secretly, Dean was so, so fucking glad that Sam had found her. It eased his guilt that he’d left Sam alone in charge of the bunker...at least a little.

Tugging the kitchen towel back down from his shoulder, Dean strolled back to the kitchen to finish the dishes. He didn’t get a ton of calls, but he did provide a vital service for hunters across the country these days, one that they hadn’t had in this centralized kind of way since back when Bobby used to do it, and he’d died a few years back. Providing hunters with backup like this gave Dean purpose and kept him in the game while also keeping him very pointedly _out_ of the game. 

And it kept him here. At the cabin. Peaceful, safe. With Castiel.

Resuming his humming, Dean returned to the dishes, adding an extra squirt of (biodegradable) detergent to the sink and sloshing a bit more hot water in. He smiled down at the plates as he rinsed them. In his human form, Castiel ate more than he did as a Mer, but he still preferred fish. He had, however, developed an oddly intense love for PB&J, Dean’s burgers, and really crappy frozen burritos. 

After drying off the lunch dishes, Dean paused to gaze out of the window and out across the bay. He pressed the heel of his hand to his sternum, feeling the ache, the _pull_ that he did whenever Castiel wasn’t close. He felt it more than Castiel did, which made sense, he supposed; he was the one with a chunk of himself missing, connected as they were.

It wasn’t too bad, mostly. After the spell, when Castiel had first got his legs back...that had been the worst time.

When the sun had finally fully risen after that long night and early morning, Dean had extracted himself from Castiel’s heavy limbs—quite octopus-like, when he slept as a human—and called Sam, let him know that the spell had been a success. Then he’d made coffee, crawled back under the sheets, and told Castiel everything.

Using his scales to summon one of Castiel’s ancestors and getting Gabriel instead, the hints that he’d given them, researching to find the mermaid’s resting place, breaking in, getting shot at, taking the mermaid mummy with them.

They hadn’t fought about it, not really; fighting about it would indicate that Dean had something to say, some point to make. No, he agreed that Castiel had a reason to be upset, so he just took it. Castiel was angry, but he _understood_ why Dean hadn’t told him what he was doing. He got it. But that didn’t mean he liked it. He worked out his frustration on the topic by taking the mermaid’s remains (carefully wrapped in kelp and sea lettuce to keep what was left of her together) and relocating her to the depths of the sea, some sacred place down beyond the twilight zone in the middle of the Pacific that humans had never located.

It was deep, and far. It took a week. It was agony.

When Castiel had returned and had seen how pale and relieved Dean was to have him back, he’d vowed never to do it again. No matter the purpose. 

“I have no reason to travel far, and it doesn’t matter what you have to do,” Castiel had promised, low and firm. “I’ll go with you.”

Dean spread his hand on his chest, flexing his fingers, and smiled.

They’d kept to that, as much as possible. Of course they were apart sometimes, but as long as it wasn’t too many miles or too many hours, it was fine. Dean just ached—as he always had, perhaps, but in a much more physical way. 

For a while, they had gone back and forth. Castiel had come back to the bunker with Dean, learned how his memory foam mattress felt and declared that they needed one at the cabin, too. Dean and Sam had taught Castiel to hunt, and he’d been the most powerful ally they’d ever had—taking down whole nests of vampires at speed, furious focus on his face and magic flashing around him. 

Dean had still driven them to North Cove every couple of weeks, though. Then every week. Then they switched back and forth, spending a few days in each place. In the end, Dean gave up on the pretense. Castiel was _fine_ at the bunker, he really was. But he lost some of the shine that he had at the bay. He was quieter, a little more subdued, even if he smiled every time Dean was in the room.

Eventually, though, Dean knew that those smiles would become strained.

A mer separated from the water...that’s a sad thing indeed. 

Sam wasn’t even surprised when Dean brought up relocating to the cabin permanently.

“What are you still doing here?” he’d asked with a laugh, shaking his head. “Get outta here and take your fish boy home, jerk.”

Sam visited a lot. Sometimes with Eileen, sometimes without. He’d taken charge of everything down in the bunker. It was a hub now, a place for hunters who needed help with research for cases, as well as becoming R&D central for hunters who were hoping to dig through all of the old Men of Letters tech in the storerooms and bring it up to date, take hunting into the next century.

Dean picked up the odd case when it was nearby, but mostly...now, his life was mostly this. Running interference on the phones, and living quietly, contentedly, with Castiel.

Finishing the dishes, Dean tossed the towel onto the counter and followed the tugging at his heart down to the beach.

It was another hour or so before Castiel surfaced, but Dean didn’t mind; he dug his boot heels down into the damp sand and finished his Steinbeck on the shore, one hand resting on his strangely hollow chest. The early evening was warm and clear, the piney scent of the forest carrying on the light breeze and mixing with the warm musk of sand and salt. A perfect day to watch the sunset, relax, and swim.

The cove was always empty, enchanted as heavily as it was, but very occasionally Dean’s ears would pick up hikers trekking through the sitka spruce atop the cliffs surrounding the beach, and he’d freeze automatically, a life of hunter’s reflexes never dulling. He wondered what the intrepid walkers saw when they looked down into the warded bay, if they saw the beach at all. 

Not long after one of the hiking groups had passed, Castiel moved up onto the sand, causing a white spray of foam to lick at the toes of Dean’s boots.

“Hello, Dean,” he rumbled in greeting, hauling himself onto the beach. 

Dean took a moment to appreciate Castiel’s strong arms as he rose out of the surf, before reaching down to tug at his boot laces. “How’d it go?” he asked, tossing his footwear up behind him onto drier sand.

Castiel leaned back in the sun, shaking the water from his hair so that the droplets sprayed out from him in a beautiful rainbow spray. Dramatic bastard. Dean smiled fondly. 

“About as well as I expected,” Castiel said, turning to face Dean. In one hand, he held a shell, the curve of it cocooned in his palm. “It’s always nice to see one of my own kind, but really, Gabriel and I have little in common. Even so, I appreciate him reaching out on occasion.”

“I know you do. And for the rest of them...that’s their loss. You’re awesome,” Dean replied, reaching across to press a kiss to Castiel’s temple before he shucked off his shirt and jeans and scooted closer to the waves.

It hadn’t been too long after Castiel’s magic was restored that he’d heard Gabriel’s song. Dean wasn’t sure exactly what they’d talked about, that first morning when Castiel had disappeared off into the waves to meet Gabriel on his own terms, in a place of his choosing. They seemed to have come to some kind of uneasy agreement, though, and now his brother’s visits were regular, once a month or so. 

The rest of Castiel’s brothers and sisters wanted nothing to do with him, something that angered Dean much more than it seemed to bother Castiel. He’d made peace with it. Dean, on the other hand, still planned to beat some sushi until it was very, _very_ tender if he ever met one of them. He’d never pretended to be gracious. 

“And you?” Castiel asked, reaching out to rest a gentle, taloned hand on Dean’s sternum. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, no worries,” Dean answered with a shrug. “Ached a bit, but no reason to be concerned.”

Castiel dipped his head down, following the path of his hand, and pressed his lips to Dean’s heart. Dean could feel him smile against his skin.

“I’ll always worry,” Castiel murmured honestly into his ribs. “Thank you for singing this morning, though. I like hearing you, getting a sense that you’re okay.”

God, Dean loved this dork. Really, like, _a lot_.

“I like singing, when it's for you,” Dean confessed, before gesturing to Castiel’s full palm. “You brought a shell back?”

“Oh, yes!” Castiel grinned widely, the points of his teeth on display as he held it up for Dean to see. “It was out on the reef where I met Gabriel, and it’s a really nice specimen...I thought you might want it for your collection.”

“It’s cool looking,” Dean said, leaning back on his elbows in the sand and looking at the shiny, curled, conch-shaped shell in Castiel’s hand. 

“It’s a spider conch,” Castiel said, turning it slightly. “See the spines?”

“Is it true that you can hear the ocean if you put them to your ear? Like, is it really just your pulse like people say it is, or is it some kinda sea magic?” Dean asked curiously.

Castiel squinted at Dean, tilting his head. “They aren’t magical, Dean. They’re mollusks.”

Dean huffed. “Fine. Can’t blame a guy for checking, _you’re_ magical.”

“I am not a mollusk, Dean.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean leaned across to bump his shoulder into Castiel’s as he took the shell from him. “Thanks, Cas,” he says softly, running a thumb over the smooth, hard slope that curled into the shell’s interior. “It’s really pretty. It’ll look great with the rest.”

Castiel preened a little, leaning into Dean’s side to claim a kiss as a reward.

Dean’s little collection of sea offerings had grown over the months. He wondered, sometimes, if there might be something to it, something instinctual in Castiel that made him want to bring Dean these gifts, like certain birds brought their mates shiny stones. He’d never embarrassed Castiel by asking, though. He just enjoyed the pink flush of pride on Castiel’s cheeks whenever Dean accepted a new treasure into his trove. They all lived in the cabin bathroom now, crowding the shower and the sink and the shelf under the mirror.

When Dean got the time, he was going to extend the bathroom. Right now, he was working on their bedroom—thick sheets of plastic dividing the tiny room into an even smaller section while Dean worked on moving back the walls beyond—expanding the area so that they’d have space for a king-size memory foam mattress, like he’d promised Castiel.

Slowly, even if it took a couple of years, Dean was going to turn the ramshackle, drafty cabin into a true home. A forever home.

Dean put the shell aside and was about to ask Castiel if he wanted to go for a sunset swim when the buzzing and chirping of his cell phone in his jeans’ pocket sounded.

“Probably Claire calling back,” Dean muttered as he reached back to grab it, ignoring Castiel’s grumpy grunt at being dislodged from his side. “She got in touch earlier for a spoof FBI call—oh, no, it’s Sam.”

“Say hello for me,” Castiel said mildly, leaning back on his palms to gaze out at the orange streaks of sun painting the ocean while Dean took his call.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean said once he had the phone at his ear.

“Dean, hi,” Sam replied, talking a little loudly. He sounded echoey. 

“You on speaker?” Dean said wincing and lowering the volume just a bit. “Cas says hi, by the way.”

“Hey, Cas,” Sam said, his voice a little steadier. “And yeah, sorry, I’m driving. Jesse called to ask for an extra pair of hands with a hunt yesterday, so I’ve been on the road.”

“You need help?” Dean asked, already mentally running through a packing list in the back of his mind.

“No, no,” Sam said hurriedly, “we’ve got it. No worries. Just a standard vamp nest.”

“Okay,” Dean said, relaxing once more. If he was a little relieved he wasn’t needed, well...fair enough. He’d done plenty.

“No, I was actually just driving through Nevada,” Sam continued, “and I just...well, I thought you might wanna know. Or Cas might, anyway.”

“Know what?”

“Earl’s place, the Ranch—it’s gone. The whole area’s been redeveloped, there’s a Waffle House sitting on top of it now. I guess it never recovered from the fire. Even the legal, human front for the place; that whole thing is gone.” 

Dean...didn’t know how he was supposed to feel about that. 

There was relief, he supposed, that the Ranch was gone entirely, that its horrors had been physically obliterated even if mentally they lived on. It didn’t feel like justice, though. Nothing would, Dean guessed. But it did feel somewhat like closure. 

It’d been well over a year since he’d pulled Castiel out of that place, and things were so different now. Castiel was squinting at him, though, head tilted questioningly, so Dean put his phone down on the sand between them and tapped the screen to put it on speaker.

“You wanna repeat that for Cas real quick, Sammy?”

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly for a moment before he repeated himself, clearly as unsure as Dean was about how Castiel would react to the news.

Dean’s hand slid across the sand to tangle with Castiel’s, the soft swimming webs between his knuckles stretching gently around Dean’s fingers. Castiel gripped him back tightly.

“Thank you for telling me, Sam,” Castiel said quietly, his eyes pointed down to the sand near his hip. He sucked in an audible breath, only the slightest shake to his voice as he added, “I appreciate you checking and passing on the news.”

“Of course, Cas,” Sam said, his voice a gentle tiptoe. “I’ve got another few hours of driving to do before I grab a motel, so I’m gonna go, but you guys have a good night, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, reaching over to pick up the phone again. “We’ll do our best. Thanks, Sam.”

“Bye,” Sam said. Dean’s phone produced a soft beep as he hung up.

For a long moment, Dean didn’t know what to say. The waves lapping at the beach seemed too loud, the birds above screamed out jarring sounds, and he just sat in silence. Then he manned up, and reached out.

“Cas?” he asked, raising his hand and touching the slope of Castiel’s shoulder beneath his spiny fins. They were stiff, hovering a close, tense inch above his skin. “You okay?”

Castiel didn’t answer immediately. It was probably only a few seconds, but they felt like some of the biggest, heaviest seconds of Dean’s life. Then Castiel nodded, short and sharp and jerky, keeping his face downturned.

“Cas?” Dean asked again, quieter. He didn’t repeat the rest of the question, but the implication was there.

Beneath Dean’s hand, a tremble ran up Castiel’s back to his shoulders. Then he turned, folding into Dean’s side, and Dean brought his arms up to pull Castel right in.

Castiel’s face buried itself into the crook of Dean’s neck and he let out a tiny, breathless sob. 

Dean pressed his lips down into Castiel’s damp hair, inhaling the saltwater scent of him, and held him tight. The evening breeze blew around them, lifting grains of sand and tickling at Dean’s legs, and all the sounds that had seemed so loud a moment before faded away to nothing as Dean focused in on Castiel’s wet, gasping breaths.

The sounds that Castiel made as he cried broke Dean’s heart, but the way that he trusted Dean to hear them put it back together again. Despite all the trauma and suffering, Castiel hadn’t done much of this; a few frantic cries during panic attacks, and a handful of silent tears when he’d finally seen the sea again, but not _this,_ not sobbing that shook his body and stole his voice.

Dean didn’t shush him, because he was all for Castiel letting out whatever he needed to, but he did tighten his arms and rock back and forth, wordlessly trying to soothe him as best he could.

When Castiel fell quiet, Dean ducked down to press his lips to Castiel’s temple. Straightening up, Castiel wiped under his eyes, a little flushed, but with a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Okay?” Dean asked, unsure. “Are you...sad?”

Castiel shook his head immediately, laughing out a small huff of air that pushed his lips into a bigger smile as he swiped at his cheeks. “No,” he said, “not sad at all.”

Dean ducked down a bare inch to catch Castel’s gleaming eyes. “What, then? You’re gonna have to help me out, here.”

Then it was a fuller laugh, along with a shaking head and the heels of Castiel’s hands pushing the last of the tears from his under eyes. “Relieved,” he explained wetly. “I’m just so, so relieved. It was a shock to hear, to suddenly think about, but now...now I’m happy.”

Dean let out a breath, feeling a wave of relief himself. “Oh, okay. That’s—that’s good.”

“I didn’t even realize that I still thought about it, that I’d even wondered—” Castiel was smiling as he shook his head, light and free, his eyelashes thick and dark with tears, “—it feels like this huge weight is gone and I...I was so used to it I didn’t even know it was there.” 

Nodding, Dean reached out to rest his hand gently on Castiel’s scaly hip. “Right. I get it.”

Castiel’s hand raised to his throat, wrapping around the amulet— _his amulet_ —where it rested below the dip of his collarbone. It was the only thing that hung around his neck these days, the brass demon-head charm that Dean had given him returned to Dean, no longer needed. Dean shut his eyes against the startlingly white glow that shrouded Castiel’s body as he transformed.

Dean opened his eyes again as he felt Castiel lean into his side. Lifting his arm to wrap around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean tugged him back in with a smile and a kiss. “No more swimming tonight?” he asked.

Castiel shook his head, his hair brushing against Dean’s cheek. “I’d rather sit here with you and watch the sunset, I think.”

“Sounds great,” Dean said, smiling lazily against Castiel’s temple as they shifted into a comfortable position. “Though when the sun sets we should head up to the cabin and get you some clothes before you catch a cold.”

Castiel glanced briefly down at his own naked form with a shrug. “I suppose it will get colder. And I do have a painting to finish...I could eat, too.”

“Burgers?” 

Castiel let out a sing-songy note of pleasure. “Yes, please.”

The sun dipped on down, changing the fingers of light that caressed the water to deep orange and red. The ocean darkened, going deep navy-black as they watched.

“You happy, Cas?” Dean whispered, running his fingers lightly down Castiel’s bicep.

Castiel nodded, twisting his face up to Dean’s to share his smile. “I am. This life, here with you...it makes me very happy. I never thought I’d have something like this, with someone. I sing of it every single day.”

Dean grinned, the last twinges of doubt leaving his chest. Castiel did sing more, now. Not the aching, sad song that Dean had heard at night in the bunker, but lighter, warmer notes of contentment. 

Castiel snuggled up into Dean’s side against the growing evening chill, and they gazed out across the glittering ocean. Sinking his feet into the sand, Dean began to hum—maybe not quite on key, but with Castiel he’d never cared—filling the air with quiet notes from one of his vinyls back up in the cabin.

“Sing to me?” Castiel asked, grinning softly and twisting his head.

“Greedy mer,” Dean muttered teasingly.

“You like it,” Castiel said smugly.

And he was right. Dean loved the way Castiel would react when he sang, as if Dean’s simple classic rock tunes were the most romantic things he’d ever heard. He’d give Castiel the world, but if this was what touched him the most, who was Dean to question it?

Watching as the sun gave its last for the day, turning the whole cove golden, Dean resumed his humming, picking back up an old love song, just for Castiel. 

_“If I was a sculptor, ha_

_But then again, no_

_Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show_

_I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do_

_My gift is my song, and this one's for you_

_And you can tell everybody_

_This is your song_

_It may be quite simple, but now that it's done_

_I hope you don't mind_

_I hope you don't mind_

_That I put down in the words_

_How wonderful life is while you're in the world.”_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It ain't easy bein' this cheesy, folks. But then, don't they deserve it, after everything? A happy, fluffy ending was what they needed, in my opinion.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Please do come join me on social media, I'd be happy to see you. I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MalMuses), [Tumblr](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/mal_muses/?hl=en) and several other platforms. 
> 
> And please do [subscribe on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile) if you enjoyed this fic! I have lots more coming up, from modern AUs to creature fics, from historical/fantasy/sci-fi to canon stories. Something for everyone. (Could it be that I myself am indecisive and like everything, as long as our boys get an (eventual) happy ending? Maybe, maybe...)
> 
> A new fic is rolling out right after this one: **Give Me a Sign** , a Deaf!Dean/interpreter!Cas fic coming up next Tuesday. Keep your eyes peeled for a [Hold On, Holy Ghost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287952/chapters/53228665) update soon, too, for those of you who enjoy canon fics.
> 
> You're all awesome.
> 
> WAIT! What's this, one more chapter? Yes, that's right... a couple of extra art pieces, courtesy of the amazing artists we have in this fandom. Go check them out!
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> P.S. If you love destiel fanfic, why not try out [The Mixtape Book Club](http://www.mixtapebookclub.com/) podcast?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All fanart included with artist permission.

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fanart by[ miserylamalice ](https://www.instagram.com/miserylamalice/?hl=en)on Instagram.** _ _

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_**fanart by[ lesbiansupernatural ](https://lesbiansupernatural.tumblr.com/)on Tumblr.** _

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